The Hopes and Fears of All the Years
by In the House
Summary: Blythe comes to Princeton for Christmas - and for some heart-to-heart conversations with House. Follows Superstition in the Pranks universe.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own them, obviously, and have just borrowed them to play with. I do own Jensen, Abby, and Thornton.

Series: This follows Superstition in the Pranks universe. This one in particular plays on a lot of material from the earlier stories and would be very hard to read out of order.

A/N: Just a reminder, although it should be obvious by now, that the Pranks universe is fully AU and does not follow later canon events. It diverged from the show halfway through the Greater Good and took on its own life thereafter. I didn't even watch House past season 6 and have never seen the last few seasons, don't even read fanfiction based on them as it's missing too much background for me. I mention that as we enter this story particularly because I recently found out from a reader just informationally that Blythe did appear in a later episode with a more extended plot. I haven't seen that one. I still have no idea what the plot was there, and that look at her character has nothing at all to do with Pranks. The only appearances of Blythe I had seen for Pranks purposes were Daddy's Boy and Birth Marks.

The Daddy's Boy scene in particular fascinated me at the time, that brief cafeteria scene with the three of them. It was apparent to me then that John had been abusive in the past and even still was emotionally, while keeping up a good old boy public front. He also had no fear at all that House would ever openly state the truth in front of his mother, even all these years later. House's expression staring across the table at him after the dismissal of his disability and the statement he didn't know how lucky he was was marvelous acting by Hugh. There's an emotional intensity there, a focus of hatred beyond what we ever saw with any patient or routine House-as-jerk scene. Also clear to me from that brief interaction that Blythe ("He was only trying to help") had no idea of the true reason for tension between her son and his father, which would take some missing over the years, and had her own incomplete and warped view of their relationship. That scene in the cafeteria, as much as any one scene in the show, was the root of the Pranks universe. Anyway, whatever was done with Blythe in later seasons is supremely inapplicable to this story. In fact, I don't myself even know what it was.

Hope you enjoy this one, which more than any of them explores the relationship between Blythe and House. Starts out a bit slowly, but it will speed up quickly enough for you, I think. A lot happens in this one. Thanks as always for reading and sharing in this universe with me. I do have a lot going on in RL at the moment as we are entering rush hour of the musical performance year. Updates will be as able.

By the way, Mom had a Grinch mug as described. Wish I had a picture of the squashed, lopsided thing, but it broke years ago.

(H/C)

_"The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight." Phillips Brooks_

House stood in the conference room, staring at the whiteboard. Someone - no doubt Kutner - had strung a rope of red tinsel around the edge of the room just below the ceiling, but to House, it might have been May or December or any routine day. He was fully focused on the symptom list, resorting, pulling each one out in turn, trying different combinations of them. He didn't yet have the answer himself, was scrambling just as much as the team down in the lab right now, and that annoyed him. Furthermore, he had to leave early today, no way out of it, and he _really_ didn't want to leave this puzzle unsolved and finish it by cell phone. They had to get this today.

A sound in the adjoining office caught his attention, and he looked over to see the mail delivery minion entering awkwardly, having pushed the door open with her hip as she balanced a fairly large box with a stack of letters on top of it. Curiosity took over, and House temporarily moved the differential to a rear burner, although it would never stop processing even back there, and entered the office. This was the obnoxiously bright young one, and she looked up with a smile as he entered. "You have a box, Dr. House!"

"Wow, with diagnostic skills like that, why aren't you in practice?" He limped over to inspect it, and she held it out invitingly to him. He gave her an eloquent glare, and only then did she realize that it was large enough that juggling it with a cane would pose a problem. Awkwardly, she resumed her route to his desk.

"I'll just put this here for you." She set it down on the corner of the desk, eager to escape the office now, and as she turned a little too quickly, she knocked off the stack of mail on top. House stood with exaggerated patience, leaning on his cane and waiting for her to finish, and she quickly dropped to her knees, gathered the errant letters, and deposited them on the desk again before hitting a rapid retreat.

Once the door had closed behind her, House dropped the pointed annoyance and went forward eagerly. He had already confirmed from the return address his guess that this box was from Thornton. Damn the man. This would definitely draw attention, but House had to admit that he had never done anything this noteworthy before. Sooner or later, he really had to give him the home address. At least this was the season for random extra deliveries to the hospital and wouldn't seem too out of place to the mail room. No doubt Wilson had received several tokens from his grateful patients, at least those still alive.

The box surrendered to the desk scissors, and House opened the flaps. A few smaller wrapped boxes and one large one were carefully tucked in with crumpled up newspaper. He extracted the first box, which happened to have his name on it, and ripped it open. It was a coffee mug but one unlike any he'd ever seen, crumpled up along one side and looking exactly as if a fist had closed around it in annoyance and hadn't released yet. The base was flat, so it would stand, but the entire cup above it was skewed sideways and half crushed. The Grinch looked out dourly on the world from the side, and below that was printed in large red and green letters, "Bah, Humbug."

House grinned before he caught himself. Returning to the conference room, he filled the mug, then went back to investigate the rest of the box while taking an experimental sip. It had slightly different mechanics for drinking, but it functioned well enough. The next box, smaller, was tagged for Cuddy. House studied it suspiciously, even lifting it to give it an experimental shake. It did not rattle. He stared at it as if his eyes could penetrate the paper. Thornton had actually talked to Cuddy twice at this point, very briefly, during his intermittent conversations whenever House decided to call him, but information on her to date had to be minimal. House had heard everything she had said. Twice, House reached for the taped down edge of the paper to just rip it open, and twice he caught himself on the brink and stopped. Finally, he set that one aside and dug into the big box again.

Next up was a flat envelope, looking reassuringly not like a Christmas card. That was for him, and he opened it and withdrew two tickets to a model train exposition in Philadelphia the third week in January. He reread the tickets. Model trains? He took another swallow of Grinch coffee, lost in thought, then put the tickets back in the envelope and put it down on the desk.

The next package was tagged to Abby. Thornton had never sent them anything before, nor spoken to them. The girls were a very limited and tentative topic with House, one on which _he_ was determining the speed of progress. This was jumping the gun. His suspicion level rose sharply, and he reached for the paper without hesitation. Forget who this one was tagged to; he wasn't going to just blindly pass along. . . abruptly he realized that one end of the box had the wrapping paper only folded, not taped. The whole thing was carefully arranged to be opened for inspection ahead of time. Grudgingly scoring Thornton a half point - he was sending gifts to the girls but at least expected prescreening - House slid the inner box out of its Christmas paper shroud and read the description.

It was a very simplified IPad sort of thing, though only with one program. Pictures on the screen represented children's songs, and touching a picture would play that song, as well as show the notation for the single-line melody along the bottom of the screen. Curious, House opened the box and ran it through its paces for a few minutes. Clever, even if on a very juvenile level. He finally reboxed that, slid it back into the wrapping, and pulled out the largest box of all, the bottom one.

That, of course, was for Rachel, and it, too, had one end conveniently left open. House pulled the box out and opened it. This was a stuffed horse, about 18 inches long and pleasantly floppy, like a beanbag. Its main feature, according to the box, was various sound effects. Squeezing the left ear would produce a whinny, the right ear a snort, and the hooves when squeezed each sounded hoofbeats in a different gait. House ran the round of all of them. Rachel would love the thing, but he wondered how long life with this would last before he and Cuddy would be ready to euthanize it. All sorts of noisy possibilities ran through his mind, but picturing Rachel galloping around with it, he could see the smile on her face already. With a sigh, he reboxed the horse.

Setting the now empty outer box down off his desk, which he couldn't have done with the loaded version earlier, he put it more discreetly in the space between his chair and the bookshelf, then reloaded it, except for the package to Cuddy and the Grinch mug. He would, of course, need help getting it to the car later, and thank you very much for that reminder. Tucking Cuddy's present into his pocket, he picked up the coffee for another sip and switched on his laptop, sending off a quick email.

_Model trains? _

_Stop trying to corrupt my kids with noise makers. Wonder how long actual parents have lived with these things before snapping._

_H_

Exiting the program, he hauled himself to his feet, suddenly realizing that for the last 20 minutes, he hadn't been as aware of the ache in his leg, even though it was reacting to the wintery day today. Or maybe it was just reacting to his tension about today. Nope, it had to be the weather. Running a hand down his thigh, he then grabbed the cane in one hand, the Grinch in the other, and returned to the conference room to see if his differential had benefited from the brief respite. He sat down and studied the whiteboard. A model train queued up in his head, a symptom on each car, and ran along the tinsel surrounding the room as its track. He started to take another swallow of coffee, then froze with the crushed mug halfway to his mouth.

Trains. The engine made all the noise and provided the power, but it was the contents of the less distinctive cars behind, be they people or cargo, that really mattered on the trip, contents which couldn't always be guessed just from the markings on the side.

He had it. With a smile, he finished the aborted drink of coffee, and his mental train circling the ceiling gave two sharp whistle blasts in victory.

The team filed in a few minutes later, fresh lab results in hand. Kutner started the update. "Negative on the . . . _cool_ mug. Where did you get that?"

"Santa Claus came early. Unfortunately, you all weren't here, so looks like you're out of luck for this year." House took another swallow of coffee. "Any of you ever been to a model train expo?"

Foreman sighed, and Taub shook his head in answer as if the question were routine. Kutner, of course, had. "I went to one a few years ago. You wouldn't believe the things they had there. All the way from little sets to garden and back yard ones big enough to ride on yourself."

"Lots of kids?" House was wary of packs of shrieking children in general, though he had to admit that his were worth knowing.

"No, actually. Most of the crowd was full-grown adults. Collectors. Lots of people are into model trains, and there are even magazines on the topic. I picked up a couple of sample issues that day but never subscribed."

"And _what_ do model trains have to do with our patient?" Foreman asked.

House drained the Grinch mug and stood up. "Foreman, Foreman, Foreman. How many times do I have to tell you that _everything_ is potentially relevant?" He stopped in front of the whiteboard and picked up the marker, at the same time tossing a comment back over his shoulder without turning around. "Hands off, Kutner." Kutner, who had picked up the crumpled mug for inspection, guiltily returned it to the table. "Now, then. When a train comes down the track, you notice the engine first. You might not even be able to tell at first glance what's riding along in the cars, but that can be the most important thing. The engine just provided the power to move it."

(H/C)

Twenty minutes later, after the team had had their delayed epiphany and headed off to start treatment, House returned to his office to check email.

_You'll love the train expo, Greg. _

_As for noise makers, that's just part of being a parent. I have served my time. Tim went through a drum phase, thought about them, dreamed about them, begged us for a set for Christmas. Tim, remember, had missed the line for Dad's musical talent. He had no sense of rhythm at all. Emily and I were cringing just thinking about it, but we dutifully bought him the set for Christmas. Sometimes, you just have to make sacrifices for your kids, but I was forever grateful that his interest only lasted 6 months or so. He switched to wanting a chemistry set after that. Emily and I had a whole celebration dinner out in honor of selling those drums. Hope the girls have fun. _

_Thomas_

House was smiling by the end of reading that, imagining his brother with no sense of rhythm pounding away happily on drums while his parents cringed. He sincerely hoped that Rachel never went through a drum phase; she was similarly beat-challenged. He hit reply.

_If you ever send Rachel a set of drums, I'm returning them, COD. I play drums, but I didn't get into them until college. John would have shot a drum set if one ever showed up in the house, I think. _

_If I don't love the trains, do I get a refund?_

_H._

He looked at his watch, stood up, and headed for Cuddy's office. She was on the phone, but he marched in anyway, pulled out the present from Thornton, and plopped it on her desk. "Yes, thank you. Next week will be fine." She finished the call in a hurry, then looked from the gift to him, puzzled. "Christmas isn't until two days from now, Greg."

"Start early. Beat the rush." She looked at the package again, then back to him. "Want me to demonstrate? You pick it up and rip. Come on, Lisa, either you're opening it right now or I am."

She picked up the gift and started on one end, neatly slitting the tape with a letter opener, then stopped as she noticed the tag. _To Lisa from Thomas_. She looked back up at House. "Thornton sent me a present?"

"Apparently. You have ten seconds to get that paper off before I take over." House was tired of guessing. Cuddy smiled and resumed unwrapping, still more leisurely than he would like, but at least progress was being made. She pulled the paper off and opened the small box inside. House's long body was leaning so far over the desk that his nose was just about above her hands.

It was a small silver frame, intricately worked around the edges, which held a picture of House, roughly age 14, playing the piano. Cuddy picked it up for closer inspection. "Come on around the desk, Greg." She was afraid he was going to fall over it. He limped around to her side, and they looked at the picture together.

"Don't remember that one," House said. Obviously another former attachment to one of Blythe's 129 updates to Thornton on his life.

Cuddy was lost in the picture, studying his face and body trapped in that stage between teenaged awkwardness and maturity, a foot in each world. Past and future both there physically, as well as the focus that marked him in all music pictures she had ever seen. "That's beautiful."

House snorted. "Lisa, boys aren't beautiful. Especially teen ones. Pick another adjective."

"No," she insisted stubbornly. "You're beautiful. The face, the music, the personality, all of it. This is a neat frame, too." It obviously had never seen the inside of a Wal-Mart. "Tell him thanks for me, okay?"

"Yeah," he said noncommittally, and she made a point to tell Thornton herself the next time she got to talk to him for a minute. Maybe House would call him on Christmas.

"Did he send you something, too?" she asked, pushing just a little.

"A crunched up coffee mug - that's better than it sounds - and tickets to a model train show in January." She grinned. "Don't tell me you've been to a model train show. Kutner I could believe, but not you."

"No, I haven't, but I'm sure you'll love it."

"He also sent gifts for the girls." House trailed off, his eyes thoughtful. He was still undecided on passing those along. Cuddy knew better than to push any further at that moment. He snapped back out of reverie a few seconds later. "Anyway, there's a big box in my office behind my chair. I've got to leave now. Could you put it in your car next break and bring it home with you tonight? No point in me hauling it around Jersey all afternoon."

"Of course." She caught the specific flavor of disability in his tone there and agreed without making a point of it. She looked at her watch.

"I know," House snapped. "Time to hit the road." His tension from this morning had returned. She reached out and touched his arm gently, saying nothing. He tightened up but after a moment settled into the touch. "I'll call you from Newark, let you know I got there."

"Okay. I'll see you at home tonight." She stood up to kiss him. "Good luck this afternoon, Greg."

"Nothing happens this afternoon," he insisted, trying to convince himself as well. "I'm just picking up my mother at the airport."

Cuddy embraced him again, silent sympathy but also pride in her eyes. He straightened up after a minute and turned for the door. "See you later, Lisa."

"See you tonight, Greg." She sat back down, looking at the door for a few minutes even after he left, her mind running over the agenda for the next several days. This would be a nerve-wracking visit but a needed one, she thought. All of them had agreed that it was a needed one. Still, the stream of anxiety ran along under the surface. She hoped everything for Christmas and, even more, the week after would finally bring some closure for him, but things involving Blythe had a proven tendency not to go quite as planned.

The phone rang beside her, startling her back to the present and her office. Her work day wasn't over. "Lisa Cuddy-House, may I help you?" Even as she answered, she picked up the silver-framed picture with her other hand, and the smile on her face was miles removed from hospital business.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: A few omissions were pointed out. Okay, so in addition to Jensen, Abby, and Thornton, I also own Patterson, Sandra, Daniel, Cathy, Belle, and assorted others. That OC list grows in the dark when I'm not looking, I think. However, I still don't own House. Unfortunately. Nor Cuddy, Wilson, the team, et al.

Here's a short update. Possibly more Monday - work expected to be light due to the holiday. Glad people are still invested in this series. This story isn't another Medical Homicide marathon, but it has a long way and a lot of twists ahead of us.

(H/C)

As House drove toward Newark, his mind seemed to be traveling down a highway itself - a mental turnpike, with associated toll booths at regular intervals, the tolls ever increasing at each checkpoint.

What was he going to do about the presents for the girls? They had no idea yet who Thornton even was. Of course, they were also 2 and 3, would not yet be able to read the tags, and would cheerfully accept gifts advertised to be from Santa Claus or space aliens. The content would be what mattered to them this holiday, and the giver could easily be glossed over. But the precedent was the thing. Opening that door now would be one step closer to actually discussing Thornton with them, which was yet another step closer to introducing him to them.

They already had a reasonable set of grandparents in Cuddy's parents, who had just been here for a week, leaving last Monday. Of course, Susan was still a micromanager and worrier - the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree there for Cuddy - and Robert constantly graded the success of the world, but they were improving even in the short few years House had known them, and Cuddy's relationship with them had gotten better. Furthermore, they loved the girls. The girls also seemed fond enough of them, at least in the limited but regular doses provided, although they were also always glad to see them leave, eager to get back to sharing the house with only their parents.

Speaking of which, this next few days would push the limit with Blythe. The girls enjoyed her company in small doses, and Blythe adored them, but the tension would threaten to spill over. He had to be sure to keep things stable for his daughters.

Was Thornton really needed in their lives? What could he add, after all? And did he deserve it? Would he be good for them? House wanted more time, more proof, more testing of the other man before introducing him. He was used to disappointment. His daughters weren't.

But this box was here now. They would love those presents. Maybe this year, gifts could be from Santa Claus, and he would be more certain of things next year with much more evidence from another year's communication to add to his differential. There was already too much going on this Christmas. He didn't need this. _They_ didn't need another element of potential tension thrown into the mix by bringing up Thornton when they were likely to wonder what was going on with him and Blythe anyway.

He sighed as he flipped on his blinker at the exit for Newark. This was Friday, and he should have been heading for Jensen soon. That schedule, too, was disrupted for the next week. He wished he could have a long discussion with Jensen about this, but there definitely wasn't room in the schedule for that. Tonight, the psychiatrist would have his own family coming in for his own Christmas weekend. No long-lost fathers in that family circle. No undertones or anticipation of tension. Just people enjoying each other's company. House didn't need to interrupt things, not even later tonight.

Ridiculous, to truly miss a shrink session. But he was already pushing limits here with Jensen, too. He pulled into a handicapped slot and took out his cell phone, calling Cuddy. She answered on the first ring. "I'm at the airport."

"Thanks for letting me know." She still appreciated regularly touching base with him, and today she was on edge herself in anticipation of next week. He had known she would be worrying to some extent on a back burner about his safety and would be annoyed at herself for it.

"Did you get that box already?" He didn't quite trust Kutner not to go fishing once the team had their patient thoroughly on the road to treatment.

"Yes, it's in my car now. That is a big one." She left the subject hanging.

"Didn't sneak a peak? I'm impressed."

"You did leave the flaps folded closed. So far I've resisted temptation." With difficulty. She didn't say that, but he heard the thought.

"I'll show them to you tonight once we've put the kids and the parent to bed." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't know, Lisa."

"Would the girls like what he sent?"

"That's not the point." He looked at his watch and dodged, knowing he was being a coward. "Mom's plane should be landing soon."

Cuddy obligingly backed off. "Call me later if you need to." She had canceled her own session for today, too, just to make sure she wasn't late home. Starting tomorrow, they both had five days off, the weekend and half of next week. By then, they'd probably be delighted to get back to the hospital.

"Might take you up on that." He opened the door, letting in the cold December wind. How appropriate. "Well, here goes nothing."

"It's not nothing, Greg. And I am proud of you." However many times she said it, it never lost the wonder for him. "See you at home. I love you."

"Love you, too." He hung up, feeling a little better. Of course, by the time he limped through the wintery day to the terminal, even just from the handicapped parking, his leg was ramping up again. Today was perfect weather to pick up his mother, cold wind and threatening precipitation, though not yet actually sleeting or snowing, still making up its mind what flavor the coming storm would bring.

Her plane was late, naturally. The airport was crowded with Christmas travelers, though someone in the waiting area at that gate dutifully stood up to give the poor cripple his seat. Tinsel and wreaths were obnoxiously omnipresent throughout the terminal, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was the background music on the PA. In the seat next to House, a boy of roughly 10 fidgeted.

"Sit still, Bill. It won't be much longer. And be sure you hug Grandma and Grandpa without trying to get away."

The boy twisted away from the thought itself. "She'll kiss me. And he always makes the same jokes every Christmas and still expects us to laugh at them."

House grinned to himself. One loving family reunion, check. He himself wasn't looking forward to Blythe's physical greeting.

At least John was dead and wasn't with her. The whole thought of John ever meeting his daughters was enough to send a fresh jolt of tension sweeping through his leg. Thornton was at least better than John. His girls deserved a bar set much higher than that, though. He sighed again and shifted, running a hand down his thigh and drawing the attention of the reluctant grandkid in the next seat.

"What's wrong with your leg?" the boy asked, looking curiously at the cane.

"Bill!" His mother pulled him firmly back down into his chair, facing squarely front. "You don't ask questions like that of people. I'm so sorry, sir. He's just. . ."

"Flight 634, now arriving." Saved by the PA. House hauled himself up, cutting off the waterfall of apology. Of course, that only meant he got to stand for a few minutes on his leg while the passengers prepared to deplane.

Bill was still close enough behind him to hear. "Why do we have to have them come visit us all the time?"

The father, the one who had given House his seat earlier, replied before his mother could. "Because they're getting old, and they haven't got much time left."

"Bill!" came the shocked protest. Bill, Sr., wasn't earning many more points with his wife than Bill, Jr., had. House grinned. Not tactful but probably the truth.

Getting old. Thornton was now 75. House wondered briefly how many years were left to him, and he shoved the thought away, annoyed. Everybody died sooner or later. Mortality didn't excuse the man from being thoroughly vetted before he was introduced to House's daughters.

The passengers emerged then, and he quickly spotted Blythe, who was in pleasant chit-chat in the line with a couple who were obviously Bill's grandparents, all three heading straight for them. Both of the others did indeed look like they had one foot in the grave, easily in their 80s and neither looking healthy, the woman with the swollen ankles of CHF, the man with the wheeze of a long-term smoker and twitching fingers that were already anticipating that next cigarette after the enforced abstinence on the flight. Of course, with this fresh reminder, House couldn't help notice that Blythe herself was now obviously a senior citizen, too, though younger and in better shape than they were. When had her hair gone gray? Years and years ago, fought off determinedly by coloring at first, of course, but he hadn't really noticed even so. She had always just been his mother, an identity apart from physical changes. Thornton's hair was beyond gray to pure silver now, which it hadn't been at John's funeral, and the stress lines of the last few years since then were obvious, even though he had recognized the man instantly from the stand at the trial. Undoubtedly, Thornton was getting older.

"Greg!" Blythe's smile and voice shook him out of abstraction, and he went forward dutifully to submit to the maternal hug and kiss. Thornton retreated into the back of his thoughts. Right now, there was just his mother. Blythe squeezed him painfully tightly, then stepped back for a look. "You're too thin, Greg. Have you been eating?"

"No, actually, I haven't had a bite at all since the last time I saw you. Months and months. I knew I was forgetting something."

"Oh, Greg." She tucked his left arm under her right, and they started for the baggage claim. "How are the girls?"

"They're great." He couldn't help relaxing a little, thinking of his daughters, their boundless enthusiasm in this month of sequential holidays.

"And Lisa?'

"She's fine, too. You'll see all of them for yourself in another hour or so." Blythe had used a quad cane for slight residual balance issues since her severe car accident a few years ago. Between that and his own third wooden leg, their progress toward baggage was slow, and the suitcases were clearing out by the time they reached the carousel.

"It's the blue one, dear."

"Just one?" House grabbed it, testing. He could probably carry this himself, left-handed. That would save having to round up an airline worker in the Christmas rush.

"Yes. Are you sure that's not too heavy, Greg? Don't forget about . . ."

"I _can't_ forget about it," he snapped, then took a deep breath. He always felt guilty losing patience with her. "Sorry."

"It's okay." She gave his arm a pat. "I do have presents for the girls, but they're small ones, fortunately. I managed to wedge everything in one suitcase."

One heavy suitcase. House forced himself not to react as he limped for the exit, though he could feel the pull against his whole balance, reaching across to include the half-muscle on the right quad. At least they had the close parking spot. "Only presents for the girls?" he asked pointedly.

"Don't worry, I didn't forget you. Or Lisa." Blythe waited until the suitcase was stowed and they were in the car to bring up the subject he'd dreaded. "I'm so glad we're going to go over things, Greg. We've needed this."

"Next week," he said firmly. "_First_, we're having Christmas. This whole weekend is just for the girls, and nothing about the past is going to come up then. We'll talk next week. Two separate parts to this visit."

"Of course. I understand, dear. I'll wait." She looked out at the city as he pulled onto the road. "It's so gray and cold here."

"It's December in Jersey, Mom. Cold days happen." He unconsciously ran a hand down his thigh again, missing last week's warmer and more barometrically friendly weather.

"Are you okay, Greg?"

"_Fine_," he insisted. Scrambling for some alternative subject to catch and hold her attention, he picked the first one that came to mind. "I've been. . ." He slammed to a verbal halt a second later.

"You've been what?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Greg. What is it?"

He debated for a moment, then tossed it on out, suddenly seeing the possibility of increasing his information. This would no doubt have come up next week anyway. "I've been talking to Thornton the last few months."

She was delighted even if surprised. "That's wonderful. How often do you talk to him? How is he? I haven't heard from him in a few years, not since his wife got very sick. I thought he was all tied up with her."

"She died about a year and a half ago."

"Poor Thomas. He really loved her. I'm glad you're talking to him, Greg. He's a good man. Is that why you asked me back at the trial not to talk to him if he called?"

"Yes. He's been out of the loop, like you said. I didn't want you giving him everything, especially about the girls."

"They're his granddaughters, Greg.'

"I _know_ that. Biologically, at least. But I am talking to him myself, so you don't have to. He's been telling me about the music. You never told me he bought the piano, Mom."

"I couldn't tell you that when you thought he was just a friend, but I did try later, Greg." He looked over at her, surprised. "You didn't want to talk about him. I have tried a few times since John died."

Replaying the past, he had to concede that point. He had cut her off ruthlessly more than once, much as Wilson had with him on the trip to John's funeral. He shifted in his seat. "Anyway, is there anything else he paid for?"

"The piano lessons, of course. He sent me money every quarter. There were a few little things, concert tickets occasionally. It was difficult, because he couldn't actually pay child support, although he mentioned feeling like he should several times. But I couldn't keep any of his money or spend it myself, dear. John would have noticed. He kept close tabs on things."

House's face tightened on the reminder of that, and Blythe noticed and changed the subject. "But let's not talk about the bad things, like you said. At least not yet."

He unclenched a little. She _was_ getting better in ways, the therapy helping her, and even during the bad times, she had at least always been there. Her lack of knowledge had even let him pretend once in a while in moments when they were alone that something was normal, and that brief respite, even if an illusion, had helped him in the midst of everything. She was the longest constant in his life. "Right. We'll get into the past later, but first, this weekend is for the girls. You'll have to hear Abby play the piano. You won't believe it."

Blythe looked at him fondly. "I would believe it, Greg. I saw how you took to it like a duck to water when you started. But yes, I'd love to hear her. So you are talking to Thomas about them yourself?"

House tightened up again, remembering the box in Cuddy's car. That would have to have a decision of some sort made on it this weekend during the two good Christmas days. It wouldn't wait for the planned tensions of next week. "Yes," he said flatly. His tone closed that subject, and Blythe heard the door shut.

"How's Rachel? You said she didn't really want to play the piano as much lately, but is she still crazy about animals?"

Gratefully, he followed her into conversation purely about his daughters for the rest of the drive home.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Here's a short update written down yesterday morning and not really proofed yet, so cut me some slack. It might be a while on more, as this week is getting very complicated. Veteran's Day turned out to be Taps for the oldest Veteran in my extended family, who served in WW2 and Korea. Will be traveling toward the end of this week to go to and sing at his funeral. This is probably it on updates until into next week.

As for this story, the next two chapters when they do come are Christmas Day from two different perspectives (Princeton and St. Louis), and then we will get down to Blythe and House.

(H/C)

Late that night, Cuddy entered their bedroom with Thornton's awkwardly large box in her hands, pushing the door shut with her hip. House was sitting on the bed massaging his thigh and jumped at being caught, pulling his hand away. Cuddy tried to keep the worry out of her eyes. "I can give you a massage if you want," she suggested as casually as she could. He had obviously been favoring his leg since he got home, and she had decided he must have strained it at the airport while being stubborn about not wanting help with the luggage.

House gave an ambiguous grunt that might convey either yes, no, or drop it, and Cuddy let him dodge temporarily. She would insist on the massage before they went to sleep, though. She set the box down on the bed.

Sudden scratching on the door changed her from concerned wife into household administrator in a flash. "STOP that!" she scolded, opening the bedroom door. Belle, looking far from repentant, sauntered in and jumped up onto the bed, starting a sniff-survey of the box.

Cuddy stooped to inspect the outside of the door. "You did shut the door in her face," House pointed out. "Should have known she was coming in pretty soon." Belle always slept with them, but she had been hiding for most of tonight after the arrival of the guest. Too many guests had been around lately for feline tastes.

"That's _not_ an excuse for scratching the door. A polite meow would work." Cuddy sighed and stood again, closing the door. "Bad cat." Belle ignored her, not even an ear flick. Cuddy locked the bedroom door, a step that was now routine since the girls were able to escape from their beds without assistance, then came over to join her husband. "Okay, what are these mystery presents?"

House was watching Belle, suddenly wondering what she would make of Thornton. Did he have a cat? A dog? House knew he had a horse, but that wouldn't be around his household, presumably. He wondered what Belle could detect long distance from the scents on the box. She was quite interested but wasn't reacting as she had to Cathy's kitten, no flattening of the ears. No other cat, apparently. "Greg," Cuddy repeated, trying to be patient.

"Go ahead and open it," he invited, trying to avoid twisting over to it himself. She immediately dug in as if these were her presents. Belle reared up and put her front paws on the edge, considering the contents herself. Cuddy pushed her back.

The first thing to emerge was the envelope addressed to her husband. "Two train show tickets," he explained. "That plus the mug were mine. Did you see the mug in the conference room?"

"Yes. That's perfect. I wonder where he found it." She dug on through crumpled newspaper packing, pushing Belle aside again, and extracted the gift for Abby. She had to smile at the open flaps at one end. Thornton was anticipating his son with impressive accuracy. "He figured you'd inspect them."

"Damn right. That's what parents are _supposed_ to do, look out for their kids." Like Thornton hadn't done.

Cuddy heard the silent postscript and hoped he had added Blythe to it. "Do you mind if I open it?"

He shrugged. "You're their parent, too." In spite of the nonchalant tone, he was alert, watching closely for her reaction.

She sat down next to him and opened the little music computer, then started reading the box description. He soon got impatient with her survey of the fine print and turned on the device himself with a comment about her lack of electronic education. Together, they watched the songs unspool across the bottom of the screen. "Abby will love this," she said.

He stiffened up again, no longer lost in the game. "She _would_, yes."

"Greg, sooner or later, you're going to have to introduce him to them."

"And why should it be sooner when later works?" He turned off the music. "We're _parents_, Lisa. We have a right to screen people before just rolling out the red carpet that leads to our kids. In fact, we have a responsibility to."

"Yes, we do. But there's a difference in simple parental screening and putting somebody through an entire boot camp first."

He looked away. "I figured you'd be on his side."

"No, this isn't about sides. I'm not suggesting leaving him with the girls for a month unsupervised, Greg. We don't know him that well yet. But he isn't asking for that, either. He's willing to go through all the checkpoints. I just think that passing along a gift, a gift that they will _love_, a gift he obviously put a lot of thought into, isn't unreasonable at this stage."

He stared at the silent screen. "I guess they don't have to know who sent it. Not this year, at least." He felt her reaction and looked at her, his eyes a direct challenge. "So what do _you_ think we should tell them? Here, kids, this is from your grandfather, whom you don't know because he's actually never once visited. He never knew about you until recently, and he never was part of my life, either. But have at it. Merry Christmas."

She didn't point out that Thornton _had_ been part of his life to the best of his ability. "Of course, we don't have to explain things. They're too young for that. But lying just doesn't seem fair somehow."

"Kids have been lied to on this subject for centuries, Lisa. They realize as they get older that the whole Santa Claus thing was a myth. They get over it."

There was a sudden crinkle behind them as Belle jumped into the box, promptly starting to dig in the newspaper. Cuddy extracted her, glad of the change of subject just then. She knew that pushing House too much on this would backfire, but the idea of taking such carefully, _lovingly _selected gifts and divorcing them completely from the giver didn't seem right. Thornton had earned this much, even if no relationship was attached to the name and he was just Thomas. The girls wouldn't question it. Still, she could understand House's point of view, too, all those years of misunderstanding, plus the undeniable fact that Thornton _had_ failed to protect his son.

She dug out the big present from the box, Rachel's gift at the bottom. Belle promptly jumped back into the box, and Cuddy pulled out the cat and refolded the top flaps. "Party pooper," House protested.

"She doesn't need to shred newspaper. Besides, she'll get ink on herself."

"She's self-washable, Lisa. That's at least one thing in this household you don't have to deal with. So get rid of the newspaper and give her the box, at least. Cats love boxes."

"Maybe later. Right _now_, I want to see this present." Her own patience was running short. She had been wondering about these gifts all day, and Abby's was so perfect that she had even more anticipation now for Rachel's.

The stuffed horse was pulled out and examined. Belle forgot her offense at the box and came over to sniff it when the sound effects started. Deciding that it wasn't alive after all, she retreated to the foot of the bed, still watching. Cuddy smiled, squeezing the "canter" hoof again. "Rachel will _really_ love this."

"The question is, will _we_ love it next week? How long until that thing wears old?"

"They're kids, Greg. Kids make noise. That just goes with the territory." Unknowingly, she echoed Thornton.

For House, childhood noise had been defiance, not simply play. At least, it had from age three on. He sighed, his hand going back to his leg. "Greg?" He jumped and focused, seeing the worry in her eyes. Damn.

"I'm fine." He looked at the two presents again. To give or not to give?

"You could call Jensen and talk to him about it. Maybe it would help."

"No, Jensen's off this weekend, and he deserves his break." He had certainly bothered Jensen enough in the past and would again before long. The man had more than earned a Houseless weekend with his own family. House drummed his fingers for a minute, then looked up at her. "Do you really think we should give them to the girls?"

"Yes. I can just see them now enjoying these. Can't you?"

The trouble was, he _could_. How could Thornton, off only a few phone calls and limited details, have chosen so well? "I guess we can make them from Santa Claus, then. I _still_ want more data on him before letting him know the girls."

Cuddy heard the finality in his voice and left the subject for the moment. Giving the gifts anonymously was better than not giving them at all. "Your mother wasn't too bad tonight. Not so far, anyway."

"Yeah." House suddenly felt exhausted and even more aware of the pain in his leg. He was tired of talking. "You mentioned a massage."

Cuddy tucked the presents into the closet, got rid of the newspaper, and presented Belle with the big box. Finally, she came over to his right side. He had stretched out full length on the bed now that the box was cleared away and had changed into his loose sleep pants. She reached for his leg, feeling the tension not just in this half muscle but in all of him. Very slowly, he yielded to her touch, beginning to relax. "It's going to be okay, Greg," she said after a few minutes.

He gave her a skeptical glare, but secretly, he was reassured.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks for all the well wishes for the funeral. It was a beautiful ceremony with full military honors. There is just something about hearing a bugle play Taps.

Back to the land of fic, this update is short, but next chapter will be a good bit longer, and I hope you all like it. I've always liked that chapter of this story since the plot first started coming together. After these two Christmas chapters, this one and next one, we get down to the nuts and bolts of House talking with Blythe extensively about the past. Some new things will be revealed there and I think a better view of both sides. Not that I'm excusing her or she is excusing herself; there is no excuse for her missing what was going on. But as the saying goes, it is a very thin piece of paper that doesn't have two sides. Also, I will, in fact already have set up starting in Legacy, change a few pieces of presumed canon information on the past. Thus is the common right of fic writers, but also, I take the position that things that House told us in a few places in the TV series were what John had told him. That doesn't necessarily make them true, just makes them the information House was given. John could have lied. :)

But before we start all that, down to Christmas, with the stressors of next (fic) week postponed as well as possible into next (fic) week. Merry Christmas early, readers.

(H/C)

Laughter. The living room seemed to have more than three young children in it, with Rachel in a flurry of excitement, switching from present to present in turn as if she might not have enough time to adequately play with them all. Abby's smile lit the room, even if she was less rambunctious than her sister, and Daniel flopped in Sandra's arms in 6-month-old frustration, trying to reach out for the bright colors in every direction. Belle was in a feline frenzy, forgetting temporarily about the guests in the attraction of paper and boxes. Everywhere she turned, there was something else to pounce on. Her antics only added to Rachel and Abby's merriment.

House sat watching it all. There was no danger here, no hidden meanings, no subtext. His family was safe and happy. His girls had no idea how different things could be, and he hoped it would be a long, long while before they - purely informationally - found out.

The unopened presents beneath the tree were dwindling, but House, who was on the floor next to the pile acting as self-designated mailman, pushed back the ones from Thornton every time. It was getting to the point where he would have to give them. Cuddy, watching him closely, was torn between loving understanding and frustration. He was making this so hard, and it didn't have to be. But of course, he had no concept of that. She hoped once they were past this and he saw the girls' reactions that he would call his father later once things settled down. She had asked him to let her speak to Thornton herself next time he called, carefully not suggesting when to call, just saying she wanted to thank him for the picture.

Now, House avoided the two bigger boxes one last time. He picked up an envelope that had been lost between them and tossed it over to Wilson, who was on the couch with Sandra and his son. "Wilson. Catch!"

Wilson caught and looked at it skeptically. It was from House. "You've suddenly discovered Christmas cards?"

"How long have you known me? Christmas cards are just a conspiracy, retailers using guilt to try to get us to spend for more people, even the relatives who don't qualify for actual presents. Have you seen the prices on those things lately?"

Cuddy hid her smile. She had woken up this morning to a Christmas card along with a present on her nightstand. The card had a beautiful snowscape on the outside, blank inside for a personal message, and he had written only, "Love, Greg." The present beneath it was a diamond pendant that she had been admiring in the mall just a few weeks ago when they were shopping for the girls. He had noticed, of course, even while apparently fully focused on adequately complaining about the mall crowds and the Christmas retail hype. She was wearing the pendant now. Blythe, Sandra, and Wilson had all commented on it. She had told them all whom it came from, but she hadn't mentioned the equally precious card.

Wilson opened the envelope, which in fact was from a Christmas card originally. House had simply recycled it. Wilson withdrew the contents and studied the ticket. "A model train expo?"

"You'll love it, Wilson. Model trains aren't just for kids. In fact, most of the people at these train shows are adults, serious collectors. They have all sorts of models there, even ones big enough to ride on. I'm going myself."

Cuddy fought back a laugh. Wilson looked down at House on the floor. "Ones big enough to ride on?"

"Yes."

"Just sitting on top like a kiddy toy, or actually getting into them? And what's the power source?" Wilson's eyes were lighting up now.

House shrugged. "Come with me and see in January."

"It sounds perfect for both of you," Sandra threw in. "He does know you, James." She wondered why House abruptly seemed to tense up at her words, losing the light mood of a moment ago. He looked back at the two final presents beneath the tree, then slowly picked up the bigger one.

"Rachel." It took a second time to catch her attention. She was still being a whirlwind through her already existing pile of gifts. House pushed the big box across the floor toward her. "This is from Santa Claus."

As the box slid across the floor, Wilson noticed the tag on top. The "from" section was thoroughly blacked out with magic marker. "From Santa Claus?" he asked, curious. Cuddy quelled him with a look as she knelt to help Rachel open the box.

"Horsey!" Rachel pulled it out of the box, using the ears for a handhold, and the stuffed horse whinnied at her. She almost dropped it in surprise. Cuddy guided her hand, showing her the correct spot, and the horse whinnied again. Rachel and Abby both laughed. "Like on the Beast!" Rachel announced. She loved the animated horse in Beauty and the Beast as much as she loved the cartoon kittens in the Aristocats. Animals always drew her attention. She squeezed the ear and laughed again.

"Squeeze the other one," Cuddy suggested. Rachel did, taking a few attempts to find the right spot, but when she hit it, the resulting snort drew another laugh from both girls. Rachel squeezed the ears in turn, left and right, and the equine sounds filled the living room.

Wilson looked at House. "Santa Claus picked well for her, but don't you think this will wear old pretty quickly?"

"Kids need to make noise, James," Sandra said. Daniel had several sound-enabled toys of his own from this first Christmas.

Rachel broke off temporarily from playing stable and ran across the living room, dragging the horse along by a leg. She launched herself at House, hugging him fiercely. "Thank you for horsey! Thank you."

House paused, his eyes meeting Cuddy's. "It's from Santa Claus, Rachel," he said after a moment. Wilson reached out for the discarded paper, trying to get a closer look at that blacked-out tag to confirm his guess, and Cuddy pulled the paper away from him (and Belle) and stuffed it quickly into the trash sack.

Rachel hugged House again. "Thanks," she repeated. She shoved the horse at him. "Squeeze, Daddy."

House rolled his eyes. "Wonder if Santa Claus takes returns?"

Rachel hopped from one foot to the other in impatience. "Squeeze!" she insisted. House dutifully made it whinny, and she laughed again.

Resigned, House picked up a leg to show her the hoof. "There's more, Rachel. Squeeze the hoof." She did, producing a few seconds of clip-clop at a trot. "Each one of the hooves has a different gait." Rachel looked puzzled on the word gait but quickly forgot it in the excitement of the different sounds. The names didn't matter to her right now. She happily squeezed the round of hooves, going back to the ears for a whinny or snort occasionally.

Abby joined them for inspection. "Noisy," she proclaimed.

Rachel snatched it away. "MY horsey."

"Rachel, be nice," Cuddy accosted. House picked up the final remaining present quickly.

"I don't really think she wants the horse. Here, Abby. This one is for you. It's from Santa Claus." Wilson leaned over on the couch, trying to see if this gift had a blacked-out tag as well, and Sandra elbowed him in the ribs.

Abby opened her present with help from her father and looked at the small computer curiously. House pushed the button, turning it on, and the screen lit up. Abby reacted before he could explain. "'rella!" She reached out to touch the Cinderella icon on the screen, and the corresponding song launched. She smiled.

"Look." House showed her the line of notes at the bottom.

"Music." She knew what musical notation looked like from his books, though she couldn't read it yet.

"Right, music. It's the music to that song. Someday, you'll be able to read it." Cinderella ended. "Pick another one, Abby. Each picture goes with a song." Abby tilted her head, considering the selection. Even at two, she could recognize the picture icons. She picked another. Rachel came over to listen to the song but quickly drifted back to her horse. The song electronically without her father playing it wasn't half as fun for her.

Abby, on the other hand, was enchanted. She hugged her father. "Thanks."

House didn't bother correcting it this time. The girls were convinced he had given them these gifts, and no Santa disclaimer was going to work. "I'm glad you like it, Abby," he replied. Cuddy looked at him, and he gave a half shrug.

The computer eventually made its way to the couch, where Wilson investigated it for himself under the guise of letting Abby show it off to him. Nobody was getting the horse from Rachel; she was happily galloping around to the hoofbeats. House couldn't help noticing again that she had no sense of matching rhythm, but he was smiling watching her. The girls both loved these, their favorites among the gifts. No longer was Rachel gift switching in high speed, though he was sure the others would get their share of attention later. Right now, though, the horse was it, and Abby was looking at the notes scrolling along the screen like she was trying to learn to read music right there.

Cuddy came over and sat down next to House on the floor. She picked up his hand and squeezed it, not saying anything in front of the others, just holding on.

House watched his family, wondering how or if Thornton might fit in. What sort of a grandfather would he be? Okay, so he could pick out gifts, but all that took was a wallet. The standard had to be higher than that. Thornton had no previous track record to go on as grandparent, since Tim had died without offspring. The only proven history he had was missing everything as a father. (Although Tim looked happy in all the pictures, a small voice insisted.) Looking at his girls, though, House felt a grudging gratitude. Even from Santa Claus (he insisted to himself that that wasn't really a lie that counted), his girls loved the toys. "We're going to steal the batteries from that horse in a week, tops," he predicted, trying to downplay the moment.

Cuddy shook her head. "No, you won't," she said confidently.

He looked over at her in swift challenge. "I notice you don't say _you_ won't."

She smiled at him. "Thank you, Greg." She leaned over for a quick kiss while the attention was elsewhere. Rachel promptly ran back up to them, and the horse whinnied, breaking the moment.

Gradually, the morning settled down. Cuddy and Sandra together cleared away the boxes and paper, and the girls played fairly peacefully, each with her own present. Daniel fell asleep in Wilson's lap. Belle scouted for missed paper.

House still watched his daughters. Finally, as the three women started cooking lunch, he stood up. "Keep an eye on them for a few minutes," he told Wilson. "Pit stop." Wilson nodded, and House retreated not to the bathroom but to his bedroom. He closed the door softly, then immediately reopened it as Belle started scratching. "Don't let Cuddy see you do that," he told her. She jumped onto the bed and sat tall, looking at him, waiting for the next step of this exciting day.

House sat down on the bed, pulled out the cell phone, and called his father.


	5. Chapter 5

Thomas Thornton woke up alone Christmas morning.

After a year and a half, that was still his first conscious thought every morning, the cavernous emptiness on the other side of the bed. His second thought this morning was of Greg, also fairly standard lately, but today there was an added flavor of anticipation. Would he give the girls their gifts? And would he call today?

Thomas had Greg's cell phone number now, mined like gold from caller ID on that first call, but he had never initiated a call to his son. He wasn't about to start today, either. He knew he was already pushing it by sending gifts to the girls. It was time to wait and let Greg take the next step in their dance. But if Greg passed them along, if the girls opened them and he saw their (presumed) reactions, would he call? Thomas double checked his cell phone even before getting out of bed, making sure it was fully charged. He would keep it right with him all day, just in case.

Getting up, he fixed breakfast for himself, another reminder that only half the food and one plate was needed, and then he headed out for his standard morning walk. His routine lap covered 4 1/2 miles. Every morning for decades had started like this up until Emily hadn't been up to it physically, but he was back to the pattern now. Aside from those few years of pure stress and getting progressively run down caring for her, Thomas was careful to keep himself in good shape, and he was much fitter than the average 75-year-old, though the years had taken some away from the former Marine. But in general, time's hand rested lightly on him, and he wanted to keep it that way, especially now. He had new purpose these days. Inch by inch, he was carefully working his way closer to Greg. The process should have started about 50 years ago, and not inch by inch but forcefully, rescuing his son from his childhood, but late was far better than never.

Greg himself was running late in life, though, just now having toddlers. Both of them were behind ideal schedule, but Thomas knew better than most that there was actually no schedule. His father had only been 35, his mother a year older. Tim and his wife also had been in their 30s. Thomas didn't know how much time he and Greg had left, but he was resolved not to waste another moment of it. He couldn't change what he'd done (or hadn't done) in the past, but he could make a difference now, as far as he was allowed to. And he did think there was progress, even though it was a little like trying to hug a porcupine at times. Slowly, gently, he was getting closer.

The suburb was alive with the sights and sounds of Christmas morning. Cars pulled into driveways and spilled out racing, shouting children and more sedate adults. Family members emerged from houses, unable to wait for the relatives to reach the door, and greeted each other right out there in the front yard. A Christmas tree lit every front window. Even the one new jogger he usually met the last few weeks, a middle-aged and overweight woman who puffed her way dutifully past him like a steam engine every morning, determination in every line, had tied jingle bells to her tennis shoes today and cheerfully jangled by. He smiled at her, and she returned it, calling, "Merry Christmas!"

All of these families knew him. They saw him every morning and, if they had lived here long enough, had seen him almost every morning for over 30 years. Most of them had known Emily, too. Residents smiled and waved as he passed. Even the dogs didn't bark at him any longer, other than one Scottie who was on a mission to protect his yard at all costs against all invaders. That one had barked at everything from behind his fence for years, a determined if small sentinel, always looking satisfied with himself when the intruder passed on by. He had once again successfully repelled the enemy.

Thomas walked on, keeping up a brisk pace, but he was eying the familiar houses and streets with a different thought since returning from his trip through Europe after Emily's death. Did he want to stay here? They had moved here back in the 1970s when he retired from the Marines. Tim had been a teenager, and the town had specifically been picked to be kid friendly, one of the more pleasant suburbs of St. Louis. Their house, too, had been picked deliberately to have what Emily proudly called "always room to spare." Indeed, an extra boy or two often somehow found his way home with Tim, and they had become courtesy relatives to a large extended family.

But Tim was gone and Emily was gone, and the large, rambling, friendly house the three of them had picked together now seemed hollow. It was simply too big for one man living alone. His footsteps seemed to echo there. Even before the morning he picked up a paper and read the article on Patrick Chandler that had sent him rushing to Princeton for more information, Thomas had been considering selling the place. He never acted impulsively, and this was no different as he made mental lists of pros and cons. He had good friends here - but he also had friends elsewhere. True friends are not limited by location. The memories were here, but he would be taking them with him, too, as each person carries their own lifebook along with them.

If he left, where would he go? That was the issue that held off the decision. He was waiting for more information, more feedback from Greg. In his fondest dreams, he now saw himself moving to Princeton, yet he knew that he could not unless invited. On the other hand, while the house seemed horribly lonely with only himself, he didn't want to move somewhere else besides Princeton, because that would seem like giving up, accepting that he could never be as close as he wanted to his son and his granddaughters. This morning, watching all the other celebrations and trying to mentally time the one at Greg's house, he came to a decision. One more year. He would give it another year, and by then, if he wasn't making steady progress with Princeton looking good as an ultimate possibility, he would pick another town and move to a small house or apartment which was more friendly and embracing than the large house which resonated with ghosts. They were good ghosts, but they remained ghosts, and they had too many rooms to rattle around here.

He arrived at the end of his round and studied his house as he approached it. Two stories, four bedrooms, several other rooms on the first floor, and indeed always "room to spare." This house needed a family, not just a solitary and aging man. It needed children and laughter between these walls. He loved it, was grateful to it, and it no longer suited him.

Going inside, he got a glass of water, polishing it off quickly, then checked email. Nothing from Greg. What was happening in Princeton? Probably their present opening would be early. He couldn't imagine Rachel waiting patiently with the enticing pile under the tree. He smiled, looking at the recent picture he had of Greg and wondering what his granddaughters looked like. He knew Abby had his father's eyes, but the rest of the physical details had not been filled in. He had drawn a mental picture of them, of course, giving Abby his father's face and hair as well as eyes, making Rachel a little more dark and fiery and not as thoughtful looking. He imagined them with the toys he had carefully picked.

Finally getting tired of simply waiting for the phone to ring, he stood back up and went to one of the ample spare rooms in the house. Here the model trains were set out, and he switched one on and watched it circle the track. The trains had been something he and Tim had loved together, and going to a show or shopping for a new engine or car had occupied many happy hours. He wondered whom Greg might take with him to the expo in Philadelphia in January. He couldn't imagine Lisa enjoying that.

His cell phone rang, and Thomas pulled it out quickly. It was Greg. "Hello. How's your Christmas so far, Greg?"

"Just go ahead and ask what you want to," his son challenged. Thomas wondered if he would ever get past those initial few seconds of defensiveness. Greg was starting to soften to him, but it still took them a while to settle into conversation.

"I did ask what I wanted to," he replied steadily. "I care about yours as much as the girls."

A moment's hesitation. "It's . . . not bad." Greg almost sounded surprised at himself there, as if _not bad_ was a rousing improvement over most Christmases past. That was something else Thomas wondered about yet hadn't explored. John had screwed up his son's childhood royally, but there were thirty-odd years since then. As bad as those first years had been, Thomas sensed that adult life even without John had too often held broken trust and betrayal. At least his son was happy now with his late-blooming family. Thomas only had to look at the recent picture to see that. Music could be a soul-healing distraction, a respite in troubles, but Greg hadn't been distracting himself in that shot. The present held no regrets. He had simply been enjoying the music.

"Good." Thomas didn't wait to be asked how his holiday was going. He knew he'd be waiting quite a while.

"You know, there's a problem with that mug, though." Greg's voice both sharpened focus and relaxed a little. "It's not accurate. Technically, it was Ebenezer Scrooge who said Bah, Humbug, not the Grinch."

"That doesn't invalidate the mug. All it proves is that the Grinch, in addition to all his other faults, practiced plagiarism in this case," Thomas countered. "Dickens predates Dr. Seuss, after all. The Grinch could have read him."

He could hear the startled smile in the voice on the other end, brief though it might be. "Like that would have happened. Yeah, I can really see the Grinch down at the local library, reading the classics."

"You have to educate yourself on something in order to make fun of it properly," Thomas pointed out. "Probably not at the library, though. The Grinch would have taken books home. Read them privately one at a time, mocked as required, then used them for the fire once he was finished. Books are good for many things, after all."

Greg changed the subject, but he sounded a little more relaxed. Thomas pictured a porcupine with the quills at half mast instead of bristled on edge. "I gave the girls the presents."

Thomas felt a knot inside him unclench. "Thank you, Greg."

His son, of course, immediately had to back track. "They were from Santa Claus, though. The girls don't even know you."

"That's all right. Santa Claus has had many names over the years. I just wanted them to have them, even anonymously." There was a moment's silence, as if Greg had expected to run into challenge or annoyance on that. Thomas truly didn't care, at least not this Christmas. Getting the gifts to the girls at all had been a step forward. "How do they like them?" he asked.

"Oh, _they_ like them fine. I still think we might shoot that horse before the New Year, though." Thomas smiled, picturing Rachel galloping around with it at full speed, leaving a wake of whinnies behind her. "Still got the talking horse?" It was something his son asked almost every time.

"Definitely. I was going to go take her out a little later."

"Not something as trite as a one-horse open sleigh, I hope."

"Can't have a one-horse open sleigh, Greg. St. Louis doesn't really get enough snow to make it work. She is trained to drive, but it's been a while." He felt the friendly ghosts crowd in and pushed them aside. Now wasn't the time to get lost in thought.

"So Tim went through a drum phase." Greg was quite interested in family history, though he pretended not to be. "What was he into, since he failed at music?"

"He didn't fail at it; he just didn't have any talent there. He did track in high school and college; he was a very good miler. When we got the horses, he really took off with that. He wanted jumping lessons, so I got those for both of us, and he was quite good at it. He went to horse shows regularly."

"_He _was quite good at it? So you sucked yourself then?"

Thomas grinned. "I was okay, but he was much better than okay. I just did it for fun, although I learned enough to be safe with it. I was never into seeing how high I could go or showing, although I went along with him to shows a lot, just helping out with his horse. It's a lot easier with a groom along. I enjoyed watching him, too."

"You still doing stuff like that at your age? You're getting up there, you know."

Thomas' grin faded, though not at the reminder of his age. "I haven't jumped since Emily got sick. Too much else going on. I just hadn't felt like it."

Silence again, and then his son abruptly changed the subject. "The wife wants to talk to you. Hang on a minute, and I'll put you on hold and call her." He meant literally call her, using his cell phone, and during the gap of the held call, Thomas wondered where Greg was calling from. He pictured his son in a back room, holding this conversation without wanting the girls or anyone else in the house to know. He didn't want to open the presumably closed door and simply yell for her and announce the call that way, either. After a moment, Greg returned. "Okay, she's coming down the hall." A suppressed grunt, a shift, and then creak of a mattress. Then a door opened, and the phone was passed off. "Here you go, Lisa, but . . ."

"Daddy!" Thomas heard running footsteps and then a whinny as his granddaughter skidded to a stop. "Come watch!"

"Rachel, I'm busy right now. In a minute, okay? I'm on the phone."

"Mama has the phone," Rachel corrected. Thomas heard Lisa laugh.

"Who is holding it is just a technicality. It's a shared call."

Rachel obviously missed the finer points of that explanation. "Come _watch!_" she insisted.

Greg sighed. "All right. What is it?" The horse whinnied again and then clip-clopped away. Thomas closed his eyes, trying to memorize her voice. He could picture the moment perfectly, could almost pretend he was there sharing it. Rachel. His granddaughter. That brief segment of conversation had been a surprise Christmas present for him.

He heard a door shut, and then Lisa spoke softly. "Thomas?"

"I'm here." He was still smiling. "So that's Rachel."

"Yes. She's so absolutely alive like that, every minute. She adores that horse, and Abby loves her music computer, too. Thank you."

"My pleasure." He only wished he could have seen them opening them.

"And thank you so much for that picture. I'll treasure it." Her voice became even softer, and he could hear the recognition of this private conversation. They never had had a chance to talk without Greg monitoring it before. "I don't need to talk very long," she said quickly, "but I just want you to know, you _are_ winning. I know it's slow going, but this is working. You are making progress."

"Thank you." Confirmation from so close to his son was another bonus Christmas present for him.

"Just, please, be careful with him, okay? I know you are. You're so patient. But there's a lot to deal with."

"I know. Actually, I'm not that patient unless it's the best way there. I'd pick the faster route any day, but that would never work here. Not that I blame him."

"How's your Christmas going?"

"Pretty good so far. The phone call improved it."

"You're not spending Christmas alone, are you?" He heard the quick concern in her voice.

"No," he assured her. "I'm going to go over for dinner with some friends tonight. I spent last Christmas alone, and I realized that was a mistake." He didn't mention the Christmas before that one, his last with Emily with both of them fully aware of that fact, or the one before that, when he was still obsessed with trying to beat the disease. This one was _definitely_ the leader out of the last four, even if he was limited to a brief phone conversation.

"Good. I'd better get going. I don't want Greg to wonder, and besides, Sandra and Blythe might need some help finishing up lunch."

The name startled him, like a sudden knife jab, the impact of the blade coming slightly ahead of the pain. "Blythe is there for Christmas?" He couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice. That wasn't _fair_, his mind protested. Her sin was at the minimum equal to his, and he was on the outside getting one phone call while she was apparently right there. She had seen the girls opening presents, even opening _his_ presents. She would eat with them. She was a welcomed member of the family.

Lisa sounded guilty. "Yes, she's here, but I didn't . . . look, I can't tell you everything, okay? But it's not as simple as her coming for Christmas. You _are_ making progress, and this is actually part of it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just blurted her name out like that."

"It's okay." His mind was already taking off trying to dissect out the hidden explanation, creating alternatives.

"No, it's not okay, but things are getting better. I shouldn't have said that. Maybe next year, Thomas, you can come visit us for Christmas. It's up to Greg, of course, but I think the odds are pretty good by then."

That prospect blew the thought of Blythe out of the water. "I'd like that."

"You're winning, like I said. Hang on a little longer, okay? I've got to get going."

"Merry Christmas, Lisa."

"Merry Christmas, Thomas." The line clicked off. He stood there watching the train circle the same track and return to its starting point. He at least wasn't stuck on a continuous loop, and there was progress. Next year. He recited it like a mantra. Maybe he could be there next year.

After a few minutes lost in thought, he looked at his watch, then switched the train off. He had time for an extra-long ride before cleaning up and getting ready for Christmas dinner. He left the room, then paused and changed course, heading into another one. This room was just used as storage. The harness was here, the leather a little dry and needing oiling. He hadn't touched it in a few years and scolded himself mentally for neglecting it. Not using it was one thing, but neglecting the leather was another. He detached the string of rich sleigh bells and shook them, remembering. Finally, taking the bells with him, he left the room.

The boarding stable seemed almost abandoned today, only the warm nickers of the horses to greet him. Everybody was off with their families. A barn cat came up to comb through his ankles, and he obligingly gave her a scratch, then headed on for his mare's stall. She had heard his footsteps, of course, and had her head over the door watching his approach. He picked up the halter from its hook by the door, then opened the stall, and she bent her head into it. "Merry Christmas, Ember." Thomas gave her a firm tap in a specific spot halfway up her right neck as he spoke, and she whinnied in reply. A small piece of carrot from his pocket was her reward, and then he led her down to the cross ties. He held out the harness bells, letting her inspect them and then making them ring. She hadn't seen them in quite a while either. She snorted a little, then bumped them with her nose, and the bells merrily jingled. Thomas tied the strap on them to his arm, where he would be ringing constantly as he groomed her, letting her get used to the sound again. Then he picked up the currycomb and brush and began.

Ember was a quite tall horse, larger than average. Thomas himself was 6' 3" and needed her size to avoid looking out of proportion in the saddle. She was a rich red, a true blood bay, with black mane and tail. He had had the mare for eight years, the latest in a line of horses, and she was the most intelligent of them, he thought. Training her had always been easy. Thomas kept up a steady stream of conversation as he worked (and jingled) around her, even getting into subjects he usually saved for the open trail. As always, she was a marvelous listener, attentive and sympathetic even if silent. Today, he didn't have to worry about prying human ears. The barn manager would have been by earlier to feed and do chores and would again tonight, but meanwhile, this world was all his.

After brushing Ember and cleaning her hooves out, he went to the tack room for his saddle and bridle and dutifully wrote a note on the blackboard there as required, giving the time and which trail he was taking. The policy was a precaution the barn manager had when people rode alone. Ember had long since stopped pricking her ears at the bells by the time she was fully tacked up, and he fastened the string to his saddle, then watched her reactions carefully as he led her down the aisle. She was fine with it. He led her outside, shut the barn door, and then mounted.

The bells jingled merrily as they went down the trail, Ember arching her neck, enjoying them. Thomas listened to the ringing and remembered.

_"I found them in an antique shop last week," Thomas said. "It's not quite the same with a buggy as it would be with a sleigh, but you still get some of the effect." Ember was trotting down the path, the bells spilling into the air. "We'll make this a new tradition and do it every Christmas day from now on, okay?" _

_Emily was next to him on the seat, bundled up warmly, somewhat thin and pale but still with smiling eyes. "I love them," she said. "Ember seems to enjoy it, too." _

_"Just think of next Christmas. It will really be a celebration then. You'll be well." _

_She sighed. He hated the resignation - or was it merely recognition? - behind her eyes. "Thomas, I want you to promise me something." _

_He signaled Ember for a little faster trot, increasing the ringing. He didn't want to promise her something. That sounded far too final, and they weren't down to that yet. She was under treatment, she was going to get well, and they had many years left together. Emily was silent, watching his determined face, waiting. Finally, he had to ask, just to break the stalemate. "What?" _

_"If I don't get well -" _

_He immediately cut her off. "You _are_ going to get well. We can beat this. Remember all those studies people have done on the power of positive thinking? With optimism plus the treatments, you'll be fine by next year." _

_She squeezed his hand on the reins, but she pushed on, quietly stubborn. "If - and I am saying if - I don't get well, once I'm gone, find something to hold your interest. You need a focus, Thomas. You're too intense not to have a project to engage with. I don't want you to go all the way down with me and not be able to find your way back. If we lose on this, don't just stay mentally at the funeral. Find something else to throw yourself into. Okay?" _

_"I'm not going all the way down with you, because _you_ aren't going all the way down. If these treatments don't work, we'll get a referral to another specialist. _Somewhere_, there's the answer." He shifted the reins to one hand, tightening up on her fiercely with the other as if in a tug of war with cancer. He had lost every other person he'd loved in life, except for Greg, who had never really been his anyway. Even before Greg was born, Thomas had made the firm decision from Blythe and John's happiness to back off and never raise the possibility. This would be their son. But everyone who had been openly claimed as his family had died other than her._

_He refused to lose Emily. That was too much. He wasn't going to lose her; whatever doctors or treatments it took, they _would_ beat this. They would die together in their sleep on the same night at age 90. _

_Her fingers tightened on his hand in answering pressure, and he tried not to notice that she was weaker than before. "Promise me, Thomas." _

_Another mile of silence. The bells rang merrily. Finally, he gave in, just to reassure her, even if he still had no intention of having to put it into practice. "I promise." _

Ember jumped suddenly beneath him, and Thomas snapped back to the present. His balance shifted for a moment, then held, and he tightened up the loose reins and straightened in the saddle, letting her feel his reassuring presence again. "Easy, girl. What is it?" Her ears were pricked sharply, and now he, too, heard the rustling in the woods. A deer emerged. Ember relaxed; just a deer. The whitetail looked at them, then bounded away, soaring over a nearby fence in an elevator jump.

Thomas patted the mare. "I'm sorry," he apologized. He scolded himself mentally for totally zoning out. That violated one of the main safety rules around these majestic but large and powerful creatures; always pay attention. Even the best-trained horse remained a prey animal genetically hard-wired to wonder at first if a sudden sound or movement might be a hungry cougar or wolf, and it only took a second to get hurt. He had probably even contributed to the mare's spook. She would have sensed he had mentally abandoned her, and any horse feels less safe alone.

"Come on," Thomas said. "It was just a deer." He put her back into a trot, and the bells rang out again. This time, he kept talking to her, not letting himself drift off into memories again. He usually talked to her anyway. "What would you think about living somewhere else, Ember? Maybe up north a little. It would be colder, but we'd have people there, too. Whatever we wind up doing, if we move, you'll come along with me." Her ears were radar, tuned back toward him. A rabbit bounced out ahead of them, but she didn't even twitch this time. "Next year, Ember. One more year. By next Christmas, I'll know if there's any chance at Princeton or not."

The trail left the woods, entering a large field with several cross-country jumps in it. Thomas eyed them in sudden temptation. As he had told Greg, he hadn't jumped since Emily got sick. Jumping gave an incredible feeling of freedom, not of feeling weightless but of being weighted and yet airborne, temporarily breaking the hold of earth, like a plane leaping for the sky at the end of the runway. He hadn't felt free for the last few years with the losing battle against the cancer. But today, thinking of the next year, knowing he was making progress, he was suddenly tempted to take a jump, just one, as a Christmas celebration. "What do you think, Ember?" he asked her. "Do we want to try it? I'm sure you haven't forgotten."

He put the mare into a canter, circling the field, carefully making sure he had her balanced. The jump he picked out was a low pile of logs with a long approach, deliberately selected for that approach, giving the mare time to firmly register his intentions. He watched Ember's ears. She knew they were going to jump it, and she did remember; he could feel her controlled eagerness. Straight approach, balance, and then liftoff, and they were airborne. The bells gave an especially vigorous ring at the thrust of her takeoff, and they pealed again as the two returned to earth on the other side. Thomas laughed, and Ember arched her neck. He gave her a pat just in front of the saddle, then brought the canter down to a trot, taking the trail back toward the stables. "Next year, Ember," he promised her. "Things are happening."

He trotted on, talking to his horse and enjoying the cheerful sound of the bells, unaware of the approaching storm that in the next week would change everything forever for all of them.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. Off we go into digging into the past, part one. This is, however, only part one of several, so things not covered in this chapter have not necessarily been tossed aside or forgotten. And yes, there is an approaching storm, a large one. The rest of this story is not just one long transcript of conversations between Blythe and House. :)

(H/C)

Around 10:00 a.m. on the morning of the 26th, the doorbell rang. Cuddy went to let the psychiatrist in.

"Jensen!" Rachel ran over to him, her horse in hand. "See my horsey!" It whinnied at him.

Jensen smiled and set down his suitcase, bending over for a better look. "That's great, Rachel. Did you get that for Christmas?"

She nodded. "Daddy." Suddenly a thought occurred to her, and she looked at him closely, then at the suitcase. "You have presents?"

"Rachel!" Cuddy scolded.

Jensen chuckled. "It's okay. And yes, I have presents. I'm going to be here for a day or two, all right?"

"Yay!" Rachel galloped off, pushing a hoof for the hoofbeats. Jensen greeted the others, then headed with his suitcase to the second guest room.

House, on the couch, felt his stomach tighten up. Maybe it wasn't too late to back out, even though this had been his idea. Looking at Blythe, though, he knew it was too late to back out. She had dutifully avoided any sticky conversations throughout Christmas weekend, putting the subject of the past completely on hold and never once bringing up Thornton either, but she was all but vibrating now, eager to talk about things once the girls were down for their nap. The tentative schedule was for two rounds of dissecting things per day, one while the girls were napping, one later at night, although Jensen had made it clear that he wouldn't keep going in any session past what he thought was productive. House hadn't objected to that limit. The psychiatrist was already giving up half of his week off with his family, after all. House had told him to bill for these sessions, but that would hardly make up for the time.

Jensen returned with a few presents in hand, and the girls gathered around eagerly. The first two, however, went to House, one a large plastic container of fudge from Cathy, the other obviously a book. Curious, House ripped the package open. It was by a doctor and was a medical analysis, as far as data existed, of questionable deaths through history, figures like Alexander the Great, Napoleon, and so forth, examining the different theories and trying to solidify the diagnosis. He was already skimming when squeals of delight from the girls interrupted his thoughts and made him look up. Rachel had a stuffed Siamese kitten, and Abby had a stuffed pair of eighth notes, connected with the bar across the top. She was hugging it almost like a teddy bear. Rachel scratched the kitten between the ears, and it produced a few seconds of a mechanical purr. House rolled his eyes. "If it meows like Mozart, it's going straight back to New York with you. We've already had a stable move into the house this weekend."

"Don't worry," Jensen reassured him. "I'd never give _anybody_ a toy with an electronic meow like Mozart. It's bad enough in real life."

Cuddy had a guilty look now. "We didn't get you anything." Jensen started to state that it didn't matter, but House interrupted him, getting up and going over to the piano.

"Actually, we did." He limped back to the psychiatrist, handing over what was obviously a CD case, unwrapped. Jensen looked at it. Timothy Thornton in concert. His dark eyes met House's.

"Thank you," he said simply. Blythe was craning her neck a little, trying to see the title, as was Cuddy, and Jensen tucked it down beside him out of the way. He would put it in his suitcase the next time he got up.

Abby ran over to her father, holding out the eighth notes. "Music!" She pushed them into his hands, then scurried away, returning a minute later with her little computer. House had sat down on the couch again, and she climbed up beside him, cued up a song, and then pointed to the stuffed eighth notes and the music scrolling across the bottom. "Music." House smiled. She actually was picking out eighth notes from the line, not simply pointing at all notes.

"Right." He held the stuffed notes out. "These are called eighth notes. When two of them are together, they have a bar across the top like this connecting them, so they're easy to see." She studied the notes, then the ones on the screen.

"Ate notes." After a moment, she tapped another pair on the computer. "Ate notes?" Her tone recognized the difference, though.

"No, those are sixteenth notes." House waited for the next set to scroll up in the melody, then hit the pause button. "You're right that they have bars on top, but they have _two_ bars. See the difference?" Abby nodded, looking pleased.

Rachel meanwhile was fully occupied trying to get the kitten to ride the horse, complete with whinnies, snorts, and purrs. Cuddy started to pick up the paper before Belle could get to it, but she paused next to Jensen in the recliner. "Thank you," she said.

Jensen heard the veiled concern beneath her voice. She was worried about the next few days herself, and she was glad he was here to monitor things. "You're welcome," he replied.

"Sixteen notes," Abby said from the couch.

(H/C)

Blythe and House wound up subconsciously selecting seats at opposite ends of the couch, Cuddy between them though right at House's side, not close to the middle. Jensen took the recliner facing them in his position as moderator. "A few ground rules going into this," he said firmly, wanting to get this out there for Blythe. House had already agreed to it. Cuddy's presence was something the psychiatrist wasn't sure about, afraid her feelings would distract her husband and get in the way, but she had agreed to stay out of the conversation, and House wanted her there for moral support. But Jensen hadn't had a chance to really lay out the rules with Blythe yet, although she had authorized her psychiatrist to talk to him, and those two had spent a phone call last week in professional strategizing on how she would likely respond to issues and the best approach.

"First, if things get to a point in any session where we need to stop, we will stop. Even if we just started ten minutes ago. This is going to be hard on both of you, and we aren't going to push it past where it stops being helpful. Second, one person speaking at a time, and the other always has a chance to respond to each point. This is a two-sided discussion. Agreed?"

House didn't bother responding. Cuddy nodded shortly, reminding herself to stay in the background and control herself. She was grateful to her husband for wanting her here, though. She thought she would have gone crazy back in the bedroom waiting during these talks. Blythe agreed quickly. "Yes, of course. That all makes sense. I'm so _glad_ Greg wants to go over things." She had longed for a lay-it-all-out session with her son since she had first found out about the abuse almost three years earlier. First, though, she had to satisfy her curiosity, unable to contain herself any longer. "Greg, those presents for the girls, the horse and the little music thing, they were from Thomas, weren't they?"

Jensen straightened up; he hadn't heard anything about that. House sighed. Ah well, might as well jump _in media res._ He was impressed at his mother's self-restraint this weekend in keeping silent in the background and not blurting out her question right there at the gift opening. "Yes, they were." House's eyes drifted to Jensen. "I got a box from him Friday at the hospital."

"But the girls think they were from you," Blythe objected.

"That's _not_ my fault. I told them they were from Santa Claus. I can't help it if they decided I'm him." He squirmed under her disapproving gaze, suddenly feeling like a little boy again. "If it makes you feel better, _he_ doesn't care that his name wasn't attached to them. He said so yesterday when I talked to him for a minute. He's fine being in the background anonymously."

Cuddy tensed up but didn't contradict him. House knew himself how much of a lie that was. It was obvious that Thornton ultimately wanted to be _here_, involved in person, taking the girls out, giving them gifts, having them call him Grandpa. Hell, he probably would love to move into one of their guest rooms and be a permanent resident of the house until he died. Not like he had anybody else anymore. He was alone, probably bored, and at loose ends; open the door here, and they would never get rid of him. House's breathing picked up a little just thinking of it, because once Thornton met the girls, once he was that far in, there was no going back. That would be the point of no return. But they were doing fine without him. What difference would he make? Cuddy picked up his hand and squeezed it, and he became aware that Jensen was watching him.

Blythe at least hadn't noticed, caught up in her own thoughts. "You called him on Christmas. That was sweet of you, Greg." Cuddy suppressed her sigh with difficulty. "How long have you been talking to him? Was that back at the trial when you asked me not to?"

"He came up to Princeton to hear it. He wanted to make sure the story about me wasn't a media exaggeration." House closed his eyes briefly, remembering the media, the whole world watching.

"So you met him then?"

"Sort of." House looked at Jensen. The psychiatrist was willing to speak up but also was hoping he would take hold and start things for himself. Crazy to want to not disappoint your shrink. He sighed. "All the details aren't important right now, just that we're talking. But in talking to him, I've found out some things. . ." He tripped there, hesitating for a moment. "About John. About his background. And I wanted to ask you about them. What did he do in the Marines, Mom?"

Blythe stared at him. "You know that, Gregory." There was a trace of maternal "don't waste our time asking silly questions" tone there, and Cuddy silently counted to ten.

Jensen stepped in before she had even reached three. "Mrs. House, would you agree that the truth about parts of the past is different than you thought it was then?"

She looked guilty. "Yes, of course. I know I missed a lot."

"So how do you know all the truths of the past have already been revealed and there's nothing new left?" She was startled. "Mrs. House, your husband _lied _to you. On several things that you already know about. Do you agree with that?" She nodded slowly. "So please, be willing to at least consider that he might have lied to you on others and listen with an open mind. Okay?"

"All right," she said softly.

At that moment, Belle came into the living room. She surveyed the party, then headed for House and Cuddy, pausing for a moment as she passed Jensen and giving him a sniff. Her ears went back. House was glad of the tension breaker. "She smells Mozart on you." Belle went on to the couch and jumped up on the arm next to House.

Jensen smiled. "I apologize Belle. I didn't bring him with me."

"How is the little holy terror?" House asked.

"Growing but not getting any softer." Jensen turned back to Blythe, not letting House dodge out of the main topic. "Answer your son's question, Mrs. House. What from your point of view was your husband's military career?"

Blythe looked confused, but at least she didn't challenge the question this time. "After boot camp, John went on to flight school. We met at that station, and he was always talking about it at first when we began dating."

House came alert. "At first?"

"Once he got to a certain level in flying, right toward the end, he wasn't allowed to talk about it, and definitely not later with missions. He went on top secret missions several times, even, but he couldn't tell me what they were, and he said I should never bring them up, because I didn't always know what the public cover story was for something. He served a tour in Vietnam - never talked much about that. He said he didn't like to remember, but he flew into the jungle lots of times. Then we were back stateside the last several tours. Most of his later assignments were teaching younger officers things." She trailed off, looking at her son's face. "What is it, Greg?"

House had been watching her throughout that story, and his first unasked question was answered. She truly believed it. He wasn't the only one, at least. "Did you _ever_ yourself see him flying?"

"Yes, of course. He gave me a tour of the flight school. He was proud to be there."

"Later. Did you ever see him flying later?"

"No. I was . . . he had this woman's place is in the home attitude, but then, so did my father, so I was used to that. Other than formal military functions, I didn't see him around his fellow Marines much, and I didn't see him at work."

"And at the functions, you had been told not to bring up his assignments," Jensen emphasized. "Did he remind you of that each time?"

"Yes." She looked from the psychiatrist to her son and back. "What's going on here?"

Jensen waited, giving House the choice. House said nothing. He wanted to watch her during the tale, just as confirmation of what he had already realized. Jensen started off after a moment. "Dr. House asked Thomas Thornton to check on some facts from your husband's service. In other conversation, they discovered that Thornton's memories didn't agree with things John himself had said to your son, so he asked for proof. That proof raised a few more questions, and those were asked, then a few more. After several exchanges, we have a pretty good picture by now, confirmed, of John House's actual military career."

"But Thomas didn't spend that much time posted with him," Blythe protested. "I know they went to boot camp together, but nothing then until about three years later. Then they were stationed together for two years - that's when I got pregnant, Greg. Thomas left when you were one, and everything after was just a visit for a day or so. How would he be sure of all John's career details when he wasn't there for so much of it?"

"It's not from him," House spoke up. "I've seen the source on the information. It's a lot higher up, from a general somewhere. Thornton missed a lot of things, I know, but this isn't just his opinion."

Blythe looked back at him. "So what _was_ his career?"

House looked at Jensen, silently tossing the ball back. Jensen accepted it. "After boot camp, your husband did go on to flight school. However, his scores weren't that high, and because of a situation right at the end of flight school, his field of service was changed. He did not fly after that on through his military career, nor in Vietnam. He did several different things, but the one he was best at was in controlling supplies, keeping track of distributions."

Blythe was shaking her head slowly. "He _wasn't _a pilot?"

"No."

"But he . . ."

"You said he had started dating you then. He probably was too embarrassed to mention to you that he had been dismissed from the class. Very much against the big, tough Marine image. Can you see where that would be hard for him to tell the woman he's trying to impress?"

"I suppose. He _was_ so proud of it, at the beginning, I mean, when he definitely was in flight training. You said there was a situation that came up at the end that got his MOS changed. What was that?"

"He got into a fight with another flight student one night. Not serious, it occurred off base, and it seemed mutual. They were both just told to knock it off, extra PT, and nothing more at that point. But the next day, on one of the final training group flights, he deliberately used his plane to frighten that man, cutting too close, running straight at him. He was grounded the minute they landed, and of course, the Marines changed his MOS. Nobody wants to risk a loose cannon pilot. He had a psychiatric evaluation and apparently bluffed it off as just a bad day and a one-time lapse of judgment, but that was his first official reprimand in the service. They called it excessive anger; he got them to drop misuse of military equipment, and they kept some of the details private on the condition that he never be anywhere near pilot duty again. There were two other times later he was formally reprimanded. Those also involved excessive anger. I assume he didn't tell you about those, either."

She shook her head. "He never mentioned reprimands or demerits or anything like that. I can't believe . . ." She stopped, considering.

Jensen sat up a little on the edge of his chair. "Think about it, Mrs. House. Can't you picture him doing that after all? Didn't you realize he had a temper?"

She looked back to her son guiltily. "I knew he had a temper, but I never imagined that he would . . . I only saw him a few times lose it. Always with things, not people. But yes, if something really made him mad, he would _destroy_ it."

That was very similar to something that Thornton had said. House shifted, and the cat moved down from the couch arm into his lap. He scratched her ears. "Mom." He waited for her full attention. "Did he ever brag to you about killing people, how many he had taken out and what his score was?"

"No. He said it was hard to talk about things like that."

"So he implied that the score was there without giving actual details," Jensen clarified. "That would maintain the tough Marine front without giving you specifics."

"Yes. I know now that he told you how many he killed, Greg, and that was part of that threat." She shook her head. "You shouldn't have kept silent just for me, Greg. Even if it was true. If you had told me, I would have done something."

House's tension level was climbing rapidly now. "You were the _only_ thing I had, damn it. Of course I had to protect you." Cuddy looked startled herself at his first words, as if a point had truly registered with her for the first time.

"You shouldn't have had to protect me, Greg. That's supposed to be the other way around." Blythe was tearing up now. "I know I missed all of it, and I'm so sorry."

House suddenly felt like he was smothering. He couldn't go on into the next topic yet, asking her for her version of details about the "good" John, those early days when John had, in a twisted way, loved him. He looked over at Jensen like a drowning man pleading for a life ring.

The throw came promptly. "That's enough for now," the psychiatrist said firmly. "We'll talk more later, but we need to take a break."

House got up, walking over to the window and back, stopping with one hand resting on his piano. It steadied him. Cuddy came to her feet. "Anybody want some coffee?"

"There's the fudge, too," Jensen said. "I brought two containers of that, one for Dr. House privately, one general." Both he and Cuddy were acting normal, letting the other two settle down, and House was grateful to them.

"That sounds wonderful," Blythe said. She gave a final look at her son, then stood up with her quad cane to head for the kitchen to help with the coffee. "So, Dr. Jensen, how is your daughter doing?"

By the time the girls woke up from their nap, there was nothing in the atmosphere to show that the adults weren't simply a group of friends and family, getting together for Christmas.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Here's another installment. Don't expect this posting pace to continue; work has been very slow this week due to the holiday. That should (hopefully) change back to normal levels next week.

(H/C)

Later that night, after the girls were in bed, the group reassembled in the living room. The afternoon with the girls had been pure recreation, mostly playing outside in the new-fallen snow, but both Blythe and House would drift off into thought at intervals, slightly distanced from the games. Jensen, watching them closely, thought again that they might not get through six sessions of this and last all the way through Wednesday. If he thought they'd hit the limit for the visit as a whole, he would insist on stopping. He just hoped they would listen to him, though House had agreed to already. He might still get stubborn in the heat of the moment, though. Blythe was shaken from this afternoon but still was eager to get it all out there. She didn't think anymore that five minutes of apology would cover it, as she had at first, but the psychiatrist was afraid she was still expecting things by the end of these talks to be _fixed_. The most possible, he thought, was progress and better understanding in their relationship. Things would never be _fixed_.

It was House, however, who was first out of the gate as they all got settled again, including Belle, sitting tall and attentive on the couch arm next to House like a second official moderator. "Mom," House said. "This afternoon, you said you were used to the woman's place is in the house attitude and didn't question it. Did your father ever . . ." He stopped, unable to voice the possibility that he had wondered about in horror for the last hour. He had only really had a chance to interact with one of his four grandparents, Oma, her mother, Abigail. He didn't remember the others, didn't really know what they had been like.

Blythe shook her head quickly. "No, no, Greg. Nothing like that. Dad was strict, but that was just how it was. He spanked me twice over my childhood years, but I must say, I had it coming both times, definitely had defied him, and it wasn't excessive. He never scared me at all. But he . . . it's hard to describe when I didn't know anything different. He was absolutely in charge of finances. He was the breadwinner, gave Mom a household budget and kept track of every cent. So when John was so particular on the money, that was just the way it was. The woman stayed at home, raised the kids, kept the house straight, and of course put on a good show at any social functions or when we had company."

She frowned suddenly. "But Mom really didn't seem to mind it. There were little moments of humor here and there, like she was laughing quietly at him sometimes while still keeping things up like he wanted. It all seemed strict on the surface, but I'm sure they really loved each other. And I know they loved me. Dad just didn't say so much."

Jensen threw in a question there. "So you were raised in the expectation that you should be a good wife and mother and never challenge your husband's leadership?"

"Yes," she agreed.

"You sounded surprised when you said your Mom really didn't seem to mind it. Of course, you wouldn't question it while you were growing up, but later, was there a time that you looked back and wondered if she had been happy that way?"

Blythe looked down briefly. "Yes," she said. She didn't expand her answer that time.

House took a deep breath and took the plunge, though he still made the question general, not yet zeroing in. "What was life with John like? For you, I mean." He shuddered, remembering all too well what it had been like for him. Cuddy put a hand on his left hand, and simultaneously, Belle put a paw on his right. House looked from one to the other of them and shook his head. Blythe smiled, and Jensen managed not to.

"John was . . ." Blythe started slowly, thinking through it. "When we first started dating, he was charming." House nearly dropped his teeth. He never would have put that word to John House. "Oh, yes, he was. He could smile and really come across well."

House suddenly remembered many group encounters where John had done just that, the image so far from the truth. "He could _act,_" he snapped. Both of his women tightened up the grip a little on his hands.

Blythe looked surprised. "I wasn't thinking of it that way back then, but . . . yes, I guess he could." She looked from her son to Jensen and back. "Are you _sure_ that he wasn't actually a pilot?"

"Positive," House replied. "This is straight from a very high-ranking Marine. He even got into the closed files later, like that flight school incident, once I . . . once Thornton asked him to." Without even questioning. House had the direct emails forwarded, and the general had never once asked Thornton in each round of questions why he wanted to know, just said he was sure there was a good reason.

"He would have had to keep that up for our whole marriage," Blythe said. "And . . . not that he communicated with his parents much. I don't think he was close to them at all. But he said once in flight school that his father had been a pilot. I wonder if he kept lying to him, too."

House and Jensen both reacted sharply to that information, sitting up straighter. "_His _father was a pilot?" Jensen asked.

"Yes. He served in combat in World War II, and he was quite a good one. The one time John mentioned that, it was back in flight school, and he said he had to make his father proud. Something like that."

"Name," House said sharply. He stood up, shaking off Cuddy and Belle.

"What is it, Greg?" Blythe looked up at him, confused.

"What was his _name_?" House couldn't quite keep the impatience with her slower mind out of his voice.

"His father's name was Charles. Charles House."

House limped quickly to the desk, fetching his laptop. He returned to the couch and switched it on. "Do you have any idea roughly when he was born? Or where?"

"They can pull it from John's enlistment records," Jensen reminded him. House gave an impatient click on the email icon. Of course they could, and he should have thought of that himself. He quickly typed off a one-line message to Thornton asking for complete service details, in particular combat and flight details, on Charles House. "I'll bet it was true," Jensen said, watching him. "Probably true with so much proof that John couldn't possibly question it. Things like pictures of him flying and flight-related awards visible in the house. That would make getting kicked out of flight school at the end that much more of a failure for John. He probably did lie to them as well as you, Mrs. House."

House hit send and put the laptop down on the coffee table. Cuddy, watching him, suddenly realized that House honestly had not known the name of his alleged paternal grandfather. What sort of a dysfunctional statement about the family was that? "Did. . ." She remembered that she was supposed to keep it zipped as Jensen looked at her.

"What?" House asked.

"You didn't know his name. I know he died earlier, but wasn't he even mentioned in the house when you grew up? He was supposedly your grandfather, after all."

House unfortunately took that as a sideways comparison to the situation right now with Thornton and his concealing him from the girls. She saw the flash of anger in his eyes. Blythe, though, missed the subtext and simply answered the question, giving Cuddy a chance to pick up his hand without being obvious about it, a silent apology. "John almost never talked about his parents, and they never visited, although they didn't live too much longer after we got together. He got a letter once in a while from his mother, but I never got to read them until years later, after John died. I mentioned that last one to you, Greg, back when I came up for the wedding. That was the letter after his father had died."

"Oh, yes, the one that _explained_ him." He sighed. Might as well dig up another yellow-jacket nest while they were at it. "What did it say, Mom?"

"His mother said how she knew his father could be so strict sometimes, but that was just the way he was raised, and she knew that John never got along with him, but John had been hot-headed and defiant, too, as a kid and needed a firm hand. She said his father had just wanted to teach him discipline and 'toughen him up'" - her tone obviously put that phrase in quotes - "and that he really had loved him and meant well, even if they never got along." Blythe looked straight at her son. "It honestly reminded me of me, Greg. Of seeing only part of what had been there. It made me wonder, since I knew by the time I read it how much else there was, what his father had really been like."

The room was silent for a minute. House then dodged sharply, tossing John's childhood aside and returning to Blythe's marriage. "So John was putting on the act when you started dating, trying to sell himself. What then?"

"Well, when we got married, he wanted to have full control of the finances and wanted me to just run the house and have kids, but like I said, I never questioned that. It seemed like what Dad and Mom had done."

"And full control of the mail?" Jensen asked.

"That . . . that came a little later. That wasn't at first. Eventually, yes. It seemed odd to me - Dad never did _that_ - but John acted like it really mattered to him. It wasn't worth making a fuss over."

"Did that with the mail start when I was three?" House asked. Maybe John thought she and Thornton were still having a mail affair.

"No, dear, that was a lot earlier. Before I got pregnant, even. I'd say we'd been married maybe two years when he started acting odd with the mail."

"How long before you got pregnant?" Jensen asked.

"Three years."

"And you had been trying all along?"

"Oh, yes. He always talked about having a son, a chip off the old block, he'd say, a piece of him." House shivered sharply there, enough to distract Blythe, although she managed not to ask right then, just giving him a few seconds. Cuddy squeezed his hand more tightly, and Belle moved from the arm of the couch to his bad leg, arraying herself carefully, and started to knead.

Jensen smoothly continued, keeping control of the questions for the moment and letting House take a break. "So after two years of trying and failing to get you pregnant, John's attitude started getting more suspicious."

"I . . . yes, I guess. I didn't think of it as suspicious; I just thought he was disappointed and tense."

"He was probably feeling inadequate as a man. That might make him wonder if you were communicating with other men on the side."

Blythe straightened up defensively. "I _never_ did anything like that."

House actually laughed there, relaxing a fraction. "You definitely _did_ do something like that at least once, Mom."

Blythe bristled. "That was a one-time lapse, Gregory, and it wasn't intentional. We hadn't planned it, either of us. We both immediately said it was a mistake, too. I definitely was _not_ going around cheating on my husband or always looking at other men."

"_Why_?" House asked abruptly. "So you're saying one time in 50 years of marriage you cheated, and that night was the only time the thought ever crossed your mind of getting something on the side. So why pick Thornton? What was so great about him?"

"I _didn't_ pick him. It just _happened_."

Jensen stepped in again. "How did it happen, Mrs. House?"

"John was off on maneuvers. Thomas had met him in boot camp but had been other places for three years after that. When he first got assigned to the base we were at, John remembered him from boot camp, and he invited him home. I think he wanted to show me off a little, actually. Thomas was very nice and mannerly. Then later, when John was gone for a few weeks, I happened to bump into Thomas in a store, and he was asking how I was. He . . . he sounded _interested_. Not interested like he was on the make, but like he actually cared about the answer. So many people don't, you know. They just ask as something to say. So I invited Thomas home for dinner."

"Without your husband there," House noted. "How many times had you done _that_ before?"

"Never, Greg. But it wasn't like that; I just invited him as a friend. He'd already been to the house before a few times, and John had told him he needed to come again." She squirmed a little, and Jensen wondered if that had also been a mini act of defiance from the controlled wife in her husband's absence. Not intended cheating, simply doing something without his permission first.

House's attention was caught on another point. "He kept inviting Thornton home?"

"Yes, Greg."

"Focused on him specifically? That didn't happen with a lot of others?"

"No. We didn't usually have repeat visitors at home, especially that often. It was odd, come to think of it."

"What did they talk about whenever he came?"

"John . . . I swear, Greg, like I said, I think he was showing me off. Thomas wasn't married yet, and John kept saying what a good wife he'd found."

"Rubbing his nose in it?" House suggested. "One-ups-manship? First place in the wife sweepstakes?"

"Probably," Jensen confirmed, though Blythe still looked dubious.

"I never thought of it like that. But back to that night, he came over for dinner, just as a friend. When we were talking, he . . . like I said, he really seemed interested in how things were going, and I wound up telling him more than I should."

"What did you tell him?" Jensen asked.

She looked down again, suddenly seeming smaller. "I told him that marriage wasn't quite what I had expected. John was getting . . . tense. I knew he wanted a son; he talked about it all the time, and I thought I was letting him down. We weren't really happy anymore, and I wished I could get pregnant for him."

"So of course Thornton unzipped and whipped it out and said he'd see what he could do about that," House suggested, sarcasm dripping off his tone. He immediately felt guilty at his mother's wounded look.

"I was the one who started things, Greg. I started crying, and . . ."

"Oh, yes, that's the start of every great one-night stand."

"Let her finish," Jensen said. There wasn't any edge on his tone, but House dropped into grudging silence.

"When I started crying, Thomas put a hand on my arm, and . . . he was _gentle_. His hands. Strong, but different. I wasn't used to that. He was just trying to be a friend, but when he touched me, his hands felt so different, and I kind of launched myself at him. I couldn't help it. Right then, I just couldn't help it." She blinked back tears.

There wasn't a trace of sarcasm in House's tone when he spoke again. "John wasn't ever gentle when he touched you?" he asked. "Not even at the beginning?"

Blythe looked straight at him. "I thought he was. But I didn't have anything to compare it to. And then, later, he started getting so impatient and unhappy when we couldn't get pregnant, and that always made things tense. But that night, what I felt with Thomas, starting just from him putting a hand on my arm at first. It was a different kind of strength. He was gentle and strong at the same time. I . . .I never had felt that with John. But I didn't realize it until then."

The silence extended for a moment. Jensen spoke again. "Mrs. House, how did John's attitude change once you were pregnant?"

"He was so happy. Those nine months, he really was happy. He smiled, he laughed. He opened doors, put a hand on my arm all the time. He was as happy as he ever was in our marriage, I think. Then and the first few years after you were born, Greg."

House meanwhile had his head tilted, differential going. Thornton had had _that_ much magnetism, strength, and, okay, compassion? One touch, and she melted? He tried to remember Thornton's hands himself, but unfortunately, the few times he remembered being touched by his father on visits had come after the missed appeal for help at age six. He had been too locked up in anger to even notice what his hands felt like. Thornton had also always been careful to never get too close or seem too interested in front of John; social chances at casually touching his son had been very limited. House abruptly registered Blythe's last words, and he tensed up sharply, tweaking his leg. Here it was, the point he was dreading most of all.

Jensen looked at him for a moment, then cut her off. "I think we need to quit for tonight," he said firmly. House was obviously mentally gnawing on Thornton, and he was too tense to add Good John right on top of new information on his father. House was still having a lot of trouble processing the fact that his stepfather had once loved him and that he himself had been fooled by it. That would be a minefield.

House looked a little stubborn, but Cuddy squeezed his hand, a silent request, and he yielded.

Blythe wasn't putting up an argument, either. "Okay. I am getting tired. But one short thing I need to tell you first, Greg."

He looked over at her. "What?"

"You seem so . . . angry at Thomas. He's a good man. None of this was his fault."

Jensen spoke before House could. "That is _enough_ for tonight," he said, and there was an edge on his tone there, not annoyance but almost military firmness. "You two don't need to talk about this anymore tonight, neither one of you. We'll get back to the past tomorrow afternoon." Blythe dropped the subject obediently.

Cuddy stood up. "Anybody want more dessert?"

(H/C)

Much later that night, House sat on the edge of their bed, staring at his right hand. On one level, he named the bones and the tendons, pictured the internal structure. On another, he wondered what his hands felt like to a woman. Or to a child. Or even to a patient. He flexed the fingers. His grandfather's hands; he knew that from the pictures. But at the moment, trying to remember Thornton's hands, whether his were similar, House couldn't call them to mind. He had never looked.

"Greg?" Cuddy's voice finally penetrated the circling thoughts. He looked up to meet her worried eyes. "What is it?"

"What . . . never mind. It doesn't matter."

She sat down on his side of the bed, tight up against him, her body reassuring. "Music," she said.

He was startled. "That's what you feel when . . . how did you know what I was thinking?"

"Pretty obvious. Right then, at least." She picked up his hand herself. "When you touch me, I feel music. That's what your hands remind me of. Sometimes it's wild and full of runs, sometimes it's playful rhythms, and sometimes it's softer and a simple melody, but it's always skillful. And no, I have never felt anything else like that. Not even close. Not from anyone."

He felt her sincerity, and part of the tension relaxed. She still had his hand and was studying it like she was memorizing it - and like she already had memorized it long since. "I think that must have been one of the first times I ever really could identify with your mother. One touch from somebody with that much intensity and true strength and still with compassion. It's a new world." She quickly moved on, though, not wanting to park on the subject of Thornton. "But I actually felt sorry for her."

"So did I." His voice was barely audible. He shook himself out of thought, turning to her. "You said sorry."

"Yes, I did." Their lips found each other, and then their hands, and Cuddy, in the moment before she was totally lost in the symphony, credited herself for the perfect metaphor.

Definitely like music.


	8. Chapter 8

Cuddy and Jensen were definitely the early birds among the household population, and he took a shower Tuesday morning while she was doing yoga. The rest of the house was totally still. Even the sun outside wasn't awake yet. Jensen emerged just as Cuddy was finishing up her exercises, and he headed for the kitchen, tossing a simple, "I'll make coffee," over his shoulder on the way. Instead of going to take a shower herself, she followed him, needlessly supervising the process, and once the pot was gurgling, she sat down at the small kitchen table. He dropped into the chair across the table facing her but left her to start the conversation.

"Do you think that another two days of this might be too much for Greg?" she asked with worried eyes.

She had hoped for reassurance. He gave her honesty. "I don't know," he admitted. "This is hard on both of them. If it gets too much, I'll insist on stopping. It's not ideal to slam this much together in just a few days, but her living halfway across the country complicates things, so we didn't have much choice. They definitely needed to be physically together for this. Phones or even video conference wouldn't cut it. However far we get is still progress, though."

"I know. I'm really proud of him for coming up with the idea and for not trying to do it alone."

"So am I," Jensen agreed. "You're doing a good job so far yourself staying on the sidelines."

Cuddy stared at her empty, waiting mug. "It's hard, but I was just telling him last night, I think I actually feel sorry for her. I'd still like to smack her silly while yelling how could she possibly have missed it, but I also feel sorry for her. I wondered when I first found out if she really had missed everything or was just faking it, but not after this."

"She definitely missed it," Jensen said. "That's not an act. She's not the most intelligent person around, and she also was raised in a background that set her up never to question her husband. Things were different back then."

"I know. Greg really liked Blythe's mother, though. She sounds like a neat character, just the limited view I get from what little he saw her."

"Yes, she does. Not every woman was stifled in that environment; she apparently had the humor and the imagination to still be her own person while being dutiful. The fact that she is the one his mind picked to lead him out of hell after the car accident says a lot." Jensen looked at her. "So Thornton sent presents to the girls."

"Yes. Greg balked a little on that, but he finally gave them. Thornton actually left them open at one end for inspection."

Jensen smiled. "They are a lot alike. May I ask if he sent you anything?"

Cuddy's face softened immediately, the worry lines retreating for the moment. "Yes. Just a minute; I've got it on my nightstand." She departed softly, and Jensen sat there thinking. He was proud of House for passing the gifts along, too, and also for coming to a decision on that without having to talk to Jensen first. The psychiatrist would have been willing, but not being needed for everything emotionally challenging was a true sign of progress. Jensen hadn't had an individual session with House since last week. He wasn't about to during these few days, either. Enough was enough. They would get as far with Blythe as the two of them could stand, and then House and Jensen could work on things alone in the coming months.

Cuddy returned with the silver-framed picture and with the worry lines back around her eyes. Jensen studied her for a moment before looking down at the shot. "That's wonderful."

"Yes. He looks so different with music." The coffee maker finished running, and she filled both of their cups before sitting down.

"Is he all right?" Jensen asked.

She sighed. "He didn't really sleep well last night. Not nightmares, but he's back to those bad dreams just under the surface. He was having another one just now."

"We will stop if it gets too much," Jensen repeated.

She drummed her fingers against the coffee cup for a moment, obviously hoping that her hard-headed husband would listen if it came to that point. Reaching across, she took the picture back and looked at it. Finally, trying to distract herself, she said, "I talked to Thomas for a few minutes on Christmas. Privately. That's the first chance we've ever had. I just wanted to thank him for the picture, but Rachel wanted Greg for something, so he left the bedroom. Really, the more I know of Thomas, the more I like him. He's so lonely, though."

"Did he at least have plans with friends or something?" Jensen asked.

"Yes. He said he was going to dinner later. And maybe I shouldn't have, but I told him maybe he can visit us next Christmas. It's up to Greg, of course, but maybe . . ."

Jensen considered, then nodded. "Good chance, I think."

She was glad to have his confirmation. "I was thinking about John earlier. Even before Greg, he was twisted."

"Yes. Unfortunately, mental issues weren't as accepted or treated back then. Most people just hid them, and they and their families suffered in silence. I'm sure John's background was pretty extreme itself. Not that that excuses him, of course."

"Nothing excuses him. But Thomas is such a family man. He had that himself, at least till his parents died, and that's obviously what he's always wanted in life. His wife and his other son seemed to have a great relationship with him. But about John, he was just rubbing his nose in the fact all those years ago that Thomas didn't have a wife yet while John did."

"John obviously liked to score on people. Classic esteem building by putting others down. Thornton recognized that he did it, even if he didn't understand all the psychiatric details of why. But it helped with plotting the piano, for instance."

"You think Thornton realized John was just counting coup or something? Even back then?"

"Probably."

"So why would he keep visiting? Before Greg was in the picture as a reason, I mean."

"Put Dr. House in his place for a minute. Why would _he_ have kept going?"

Cuddy took another drink of coffee, thinking about it. "Some kind of puzzle. Blythe, maybe?"

Jensen nodded. "I think she was unhappier than she was letting herself admit, even. He noticed that at the first visit. The contrast between John's description of her and their marriage and her attitude herself would have caught his attention. Blythe said something else that was quite telling. It wasn't just curiosity. Thornton really cares about people. He's intensely family minded, like you said. Maybe he was hoping to be able to give some gentle guy-to-guy advice once he'd watched them for a while and had more information."

"It's a shame he wasn't stationed more often with them," Cuddy said. "Almost all of what he saw when he lived near them was John really being happy about the pregnancy and Greg. I think if he'd been on the same base later anywhere, he would have seen it."

"I agree," Jensen said. His head came up suddenly, and a moment later, Cuddy heard the slow, limping footsteps down the hall. House entered the kitchen, hair still rumpled on end, and dropped into a chair, stealing Cuddy's coffee cup, noting the presence of the picture next to it. She got up and filled another cup for herself, also topping off his.

"Good morning, Greg."

"Morning." He took a long swallow. Jensen was watching him a little too closely, and House glared at him. "I'm _fine_. The leg is worse on winter mornings."

If he was using his leg as an excuse, he wasn't fine, but Jensen left it alone. "Your mother's not a fan of mornings either, apparently. Haven't heard a peep from her yet."

"She never was." House drained half the coffee cup in a few gulps.

Jensen looked from House to Cuddy, back with the worry in her eyes. "What should we all do this morning?" he asked. House had been surprised at how much the psychiatrist threw himself into the girls and their activities yesterday.

Cuddy considered it. "It's still pretty cold. Maybe outside for a little while, but then what about a movie?" The conversation shifted under Jensen's guidance to the day and then to the girls, and slowly, both House and Cuddy relaxed a little, at least for the moment, though the shadow of this afternoon's session never quite went away.

(H/C)

_Hi Thomas,_

_So the quest continues. Whatever you're after, I'll bet you track it down eventually. _

_Charles House was in the Navy. He enlisted in 1934, and he was indeed a pilot. Pretty quiet career before the war, mostly stateside. He was stationed at Pearl Harbor on December 7th, one of the lucky ones whose ship was only damaged, not sunk. He fought in the Pacific theater, and he really kicked into high gear after that. 21 confirmed kills, and the total is undoubtedly higher than that, as you know. Some of the battles were such hornet's nests that figures are sketchy. He was shot down in 1944 at the battle of Saipan. One year in a Japanese prison camp, liberated in 1945 after peace. He never fully recovered from his injuries and lack of adequate medical treatment while a POW, and he was discharged after he came back home, although he wanted to stay in. There wasn't any question medically, unfortunately. He wouldn't have ever been fit for service again. He was never able to work after that and lived on a pension. He died in 1958 of long-term effects of his injuries and imprisonment. Sterling war record, many awards, and his fellow pilots admired him. Per fellow POWs, he was a leader in the camp and never gave in. When peace was announced in the camp, he attacked the Jap commander of that camp with his bare hands and would have killed him even with his own injuries if he hadn't been pulled off by others. A genuine hero, but the war ruined him physically. _

_Semper fi!_

_Steve_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Book recommendation. Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. The author is superb, the material is riveting, the pace never falters, and the story is 100% true and meticulously researched. I love reading history even more than reading fiction, but I hate authors who make it boring. There's no excuse. History was not boring. But Hillenbrand is a marvelous storyteller. This is the best book I have read this year.

(H/C)

"Did you hear back on John's father?" Jensen asked as soon as the group assembled in the living room that afternoon. House had checked email a few minutes ago while Blythe was going through the bathroom and Cuddy was double checking that the girls were soundly asleep, and his tension and analysis level had both jumped in those few minutes. Jensen left him the out in case Thornton's email had involved something else private, but assuming it was John's father, the psychiatrist didn't think they could advance to another topic until dealing with this one. House was too wired.

"Yes." House gave them the summary of Charles House's military career.

The living room was silent for a moment after he had finished. "Wow," Cuddy said softly. "That could sure explain some things."

Blythe was stunned. "He _never _mentioned any of that. He said once his father hadn't been in good health. That was his excuse why he didn't invite his parents to travel to the wedding, just told them later so they wouldn't feel guilty about having to miss it. They never visited us, either. But he never mentioned his father being a prisoner or anything like that. And those letters from his mother I found, there were only a couple, but she never mentioned that the war had changed things."

"People didn't back then," Jensen said. "We just didn't talk about things like POW experiences then or mental health issues from it. Any POW I've ever had a conversation with would much rather nail that box closed and never bring it up at all. That would be so off limits for conversation in the family that she still respected his privacy after his death."

"John sure mentioned it with _me_," House snarled. They all looked at him. "Not his father by name, but all the time, he would talk about what might happen in a military career if I got captured, how I needed to toughen up and learn to take things like a good soldier. That he was doing me a favor by preparing me. And of course, after the infarction, he never lost any chance to tell me that didn't count. Real men got disabled in battle, not in medical stupidity." His respirations were up a little by the end of that, and Cuddy took his hand. Belle was already in his lap this time.

Jensen took over the conversation, giving House a minute and backing away from the personal to general analysis. "Anybody with that record almost by default would have PTSD. Being actually at the Pearl Harbor attack would be enough by itself. Then many quite intense battle experiences, then being shot down, then the prison camp for a year. The Japanese prison camps were horrific, even worse than the German ones in a way. We had a basic cultural values clash there that complicated everything."

Cuddy looked confused. "How do cultural values clashes make a Japanese prison camp worse than somebody else's?"

"The Japanese are obsessed as a race with being honorable. And for a warrior in particular, the honorable thing to do if you were about to be captured was to commit suicide instead."

House nodded, getting into the cultural details now, relaxing a little. "I heard a few people talking when we were stationed there. Suicide made sense to them as the better choice in some circumstances, and in war, it was an especially honorable option. Remember kamikaze pilots? The Japanese Navy also had kaiten, manned torpedoes. A pilot would drive them into the target, and of course, if you hit your target, you died. In fact, you died even if you missed. The sub wouldn't have gone to retrieve you, and returning after a miss would be too shameful anyway, so you just rode it on into the sea. There was a big reward paid to your family if you hit a target, though. Very honorable way to check out. But even if you weren't on a specific suicide duty like that, if you were about to be captured, the right thing to do would be to kill yourself. Harakiri. It erased the shame of having put yourself in a losing position, and you died with full honor."

Jensen picked up the explanation. "That's why our figures for Japanese POWs captured in the war were only a fraction of theirs for Americans. A good soldier wasn't supposed to let it happen. If possible, take out the enemy at the same time, but at the least, don't let yourself become a prisoner. So to the Japanese military running the camps, every soldier there had _personally_ failed to act honorably. There wasn't a greater failure, as far as their culture was concerned. The camp staff was absolutely disgusted with the POWs. Individually, as men and as soldiers. No proper Japanese could imagine letting himself sink that low. There were beatings and humiliation. They worked a lot of them to death, too. Duties like working in the coal mines, things like that, with impossible daily quotas, and all that on a starvation diet. I had one patient years ago who had been a Japanese POW. Decades later, it was still crystal clear, and what he described was unspeakable. And no, it hadn't ever been open for discussion as a family topic."

Blythe was trying to absorb all of this. "So you're saying that if John's father mistreated him, it was a result of the war?"

"It's an educated guess. We'll never know for sure. But take somebody raised in a strict home, not necessarily abusive but strict. They can be totally different things. His mother's letter implied that he was raised strictly, although if he did mistreat John, I doubt she saw the worst of it. But take a person like that, give him those war experiences, and then send him home and drop him back into society with basically no support. Unfortunately, the military really dropped the ball on returning soldiers. They still could improve, but they're trying now, and the issues are talked about, at least. But the World War II soldiers got basically no help. PTSD wasn't even a diagnosis until decades later. So he comes back to a house where his strong-willed young son has had an absent but hero father for several years and a presumed-dead father for one year."

House had his differential expression on. "John was obsessed with the military. I think that was legit, even if he lied about his career. So you think on one hand, he idolized his father and wanted to be like him, and on the other, he was abused by him?"

Jensen nodded. "His early childhood years would have been dominated by the war. Any child old enough had to be aware of it. It was talked about on every street, in all the papers. And they also would have followed his father's career as a pilot as much as they could. It makes perfect sense that John would worship this absent father and become obsessed with wanting to be a pilot himself. But when his father came back, he was physically broken and emotionally unstable. Hard to reconcile that with your gilded mental image, especially for a child. And I think John's obsession with the military as a future career probably made things worse for Charles. That phrase about 'toughening him up.' I always thought John was repeating that and a few other things. His mother apparently used the phrase in the letter, too; she must have heard it several times, even if she didn't see everything going on. In a warped way, maybe Charles thought he really did need to prepare John for his military career if his son was determined to enlist once he was old enough. Charles would have been still mentally fighting the horrors that a military career had led to. Probably, to him, he was doing his son a favor. It's all a guess, like I said, but psychiatrically, it makes sense."

House shuddered, trying to shake off a very grudging sympathy. "That _still_ doesn't excuse him. No matter what his background was."

"Of course not," Jensen agreed. "What he did was unspeakable, and the responsibility for that is _his_. Nobody else's."

"That whole lie about being a pilot was probably for his father as much as for Mom. So his entire military career was a failure."

"Yes. That had to gnaw at him. He couldn't have ever openly admitted getting kicked out of flight school, not to his family at least. Bury the shame and pretend it isn't there."

"He always said to me privately in those early years that I was going to be the perfect officer, that I wouldn't have his faults to deal with but did have his genes and would go all the way. He was saying that at my second birthday party. Just a chip off the old block. You think when he thought I really was his son, he wanted me to be the hero he couldn't and honor his father by proxy?"

Blythe jumped in before Jensen had a chance to answer. "You don't remember your second birthday, Gregory." Her tone was perfect condescending parent humoring the child, and Cuddy's newborn sympathy for her dived out the window.

House tensed up sharply, hurting his leg a little doing it. "Like hell I don't," he snapped. "How could you possibly know whether I do or not?"

"Easy," Jensen said.

Both of them totally ignored him. "Children don't have clear memories that young," Blythe stated confidently. "Maybe you heard things later and just think you remember them from then."

"Things _later_? How could I possibly confuse later with those first few years? We were in the kitchen, and you were taking pictures. I kept trying to get to the chocolate cake, didn't realize I really should have been watching out for _him_ instead. You asked him to try to get me to look at you, but I still wanted the cake, and he laughed and said we'd have to do that first. Then the presents. I got a Marine teddy bear and a ride-on toy and a 2-year-old sized Marine uniform. John put the uniform on me right then and wanted pictures of us together in the uniforms, but you ran out of film. While you went to the bedroom to get more film, he was talking to me, saying the same old speech he _always_ was telling me when we were alone, and I wasn't even listening. I missed it." He ran down finally. Cuddy was gripping his hand tightly now, and Belle was watching him closely. Blythe was staring at him, at first in wonder, then in concern.

"Settle down, Greg. You really remember that?"

"No, I made it all up just now. I read your mind and pulled it out of there because I'm telepathic. Is that any easier for you to believe?"

"Take it easy," Jensen repeated. "All right, let's take a break for a while."

House ran straight over the recommendation. "No. He actually _loved_ me at first, didn't he?" His whole body was starting to tremble slightly now.

"Yes, Greg. He was so happy. He doted on you. I think that's why Thomas never raised the question and never came forward. John was happier those few years than he'd ever been. Are you all right, dear?"

"Fine."

Jensen stood up. "That is _enough_. This session is over. We'll talk more tonight." Cuddy glared at Blythe, an unmistakable message, and Blythe meekly fell into silence and started to get up herself.

At that moment, Abby woke up, and they heard her calling. Cuddy looked from her husband to his mother and said sharply, "Come help me, Blythe." She stood and headed back to the nursery, and Blythe slowly followed her, leaving the two men alone.

Jensen moved over to the couch. "Take an Ativan," he said softly. House hesitated, then pulled the pills out. "I think we need to stop after tonight. We don't need another day of this."

"I can take it," House insisted stubbornly.

"That's not the point. The question is, _should_ you take it? Pushing it too far is counterproductive; we've already made a lot of progress here."

House shook his head. "We're not through everything yet."

"We aren't going to get through everything. But you agreed to listen to me on this if I thought it was time to stop. We'll talk a little more tonight, _calmly_, and then leave things there. You gave me your word."

House fell into silence. Jensen waited patiently, not pushing on but not moving away. "Okay," House said grudgingly after a minute.

Jensen put a hand on his arm. "I'm proud of you for this week. It's a big step, and it shows how far you've come."

House looked back toward the hall, dodging, though the approval warmed him. "You suppose they're safe back there? Lisa wouldn't kill Mom in front of the girls, would she?"

Jensen grinned. "No, she'd wait for a private opportunity."

House sighed. "Sometimes she seems to be making progress, and then she'll say something like that, and we're back to square one."

"She is what she is. Definite progress, but it's not ever going to be complete. But she'll always be your mother, even so." Jensen squeezed his arm lightly and stood up. "And that's more than enough of this for the afternoon. Let's get some fudge."

Rachel, running down the hall, heard the last word. "FUDGE!" she called, bursting into the living room. "Yay!" House was smiling himself as he moved Belle aside and stood up.


	10. Chapter 10

The final session convened that evening in the living room after the girls were in bed, and Jensen took a firm grip on it at the start. "This is the last talk we're going to be having," he stated, a fact and not a suggestion. "You've both had just about enough of this, and it would make things worse to push too far." Cuddy immediately looked relieved. House looked unconvinced but reluctantly cooperative, at least at the moment.

It was Blythe, as he'd expected, who protested immediately. "But we haven't talked about everything yet."

"Mrs. House, if we spent the next month doing this, we wouldn't get everything all settled and tied up with a bow. This is never going to be _finished_ like you want. It will get better, but it isn't going to be all fixed and good as new. But pushing on past a certain point will make things worse, not better. It's time to quit for now. Think about how far you've come just yesterday and today, how much you've found out. There's lots of progress, and you've both got a lot of new information to process, too."

Blythe still looked reluctant. "I just wish . . ." She looked over at her son. "I'd do anything to fix things, Gregory."

Cuddy gritted her teeth but stayed silent. House sighed. "He's right, Mom; it isn't going to get fixed. But it is getting better."

Jensen stepped back in, his voice smooth and persuasive as always but his tone firm. "So we're down to final questions now. Just a little longer, and that's it for this visit, at least for the serious talks. You can finish up tomorrow with a pure family fun day before your flight out on Thursday morning. So for the last questions, is there anything else either of you really want to know now instead of months down the road next time we do this?"

Both of them jumped in simultaneously, resulting in a conversational collision. Blythe yielded after a moment, and House stubbornly repeated his question. "You really never noticed _anything_? Never wondered at all if more was going on?"

Blythe looked down for a minute, then back up at him, chin quivering slightly but her gaze steady. "No," she admitted. As mad as she was, Cuddy also felt a little grudging admiration. Yes, Blythe had been a lousy excuse for a mother, but to sit here on the couch and have these conversations, facing her son and her failure, took its own form of bravery. She was naive in many ways, but she couldn't have expected these sessions to be easy. She had been in therapy for almost three years herself, and her psychiatrist's notes made it clear that she realized how completely she had failed her son. A pure coward simply would have stayed in Kentucky this Christmas and manufactured an excuse. "I thought it was just you being a strong-willed child and John's military idea of discipline. But I swear, Greg, I never knew what was going on. I would have done something. I would have taken you and left."

House impatiently pushed the declaration aside. "No, I mean earlier. When he was acting happy, before he realized I wasn't his son. Before I was three. You never saw the front slip? Not even once?"

Blythe was puzzled now. "But that was the _good_ part. Why would you wonder about that?"

"Just answer the damn question."

"No, Greg. It wasn't a front; he really was happy."

House looked at the far wall, his mind spinning around that. The love was still as difficult to accept after the fact as the abuse. Those reawakened memories had been hard for him to handle the last few months. He sat there in thought, one hand in Cuddy's, the other absentmindedly stroking Belle in his lap. Jensen picked up the questioning after a few seconds of silence.

"Mrs. House, you said you saw John get angry a few times, that you knew he had a temper. How often did you see that? I'm not limiting it to the first couple of years. Overall, how often did you see him truly mad?"

She took a moment to think about it. "Not often. Probably only five or six times."

"Over your marriage? My childhood?" House asked.

"Over the whole marriage, Greg. He didn't lose it often. And like I said, never once with a person that I saw. Always with a thing."

"It happened more often than that," House said. "Actually, I guess that wasn't him being out of control. I saw him _too_ controlled. Even destroying things, even making _me_ break things, it was always systematic. Did you ever wonder what happened with the gifts?"

Blythe looked blank. "The gifts? You mean the things you . . ." She skidded to a stop, horrified. "He made you break those things? It wasn't. . ."

House nodded. "I wasn't just a clumsy walking accident. That was what he made me tell you. He would have me break them. Anything I gave you. Anything I valued that you gave me. The first thing was that Marine teddy bear that I got at my second birthday. Very early then, he wasn't having me break things yet. But he took it one day when I was three and said he'd punish me if I cried. He took it off with him and said that I didn't deserve a Marine bear, that I'd have to earn it, and someday, if I ever toughened up enough to earn it, I could have it back." He shuddered. "Of course, I never got it back."

"He told me you lost it. And then that you'd decided you were too much of a big boy to sleep with a bear."

"He _lied_," House snapped. "_Anything_ he told you was probably a lie. Anything you think was an accident probably wasn't."

"But that night with the lamp on my birthday - I know you knocked that off, Greg. It was fine when we left home to go out to dinner. John wasn't even there when it broke."

House tensed up even more. "You don't have to answer that one, Greg," Cuddy suggested.

"Oh, she _has_ to hear about that. One of the rare occasions where I hit the daily double - _both_ of my parents standing right there missing what was going on that moment under their noses while John was just laughing silently. I did knock the damned lamp off because I had gone to the bathroom, but that's when he called, and whenever he called to check when you left me home, I had to pick it up on the first ring. I was racing back, and my wrist was still stiff from being in the cast, and I knocked the lamp off, and it broke. If you had been _five more minutes_ getting home, I would have had it fixed. Couldn't you have had dessert or something? And then you jumped right in before I even had to lie, and you told Thornton yourself what a clumsy idiot I was, always doing stuff like that, and _he_ bought it, too, lock, stock, and barrel. It was all right there in front of you both, and you didn't see it."

"That's enough," Jensen said. "All right, we're stopping."

"Not yet," House protested. "Just one more question. There's something I have _always_ been dying to ask you, and no time like the present. How could you possibly ask me to give his eulogy? Even if you didn't know what was going on, you knew there was tension there."

Blythe looked guilty. "I really thought it would help close things, dear, but actually, that was John's idea."

House stared. "That was _John's_ idea?"

"When he got sick, he bought one of those prepaid funeral things. He even got us a double deal at the same time, and he was planning everything just like he wanted, from the service to the big tombstone. He wanted you to give his eulogy."

House was quivering in suppressed rage now. The final insult, worse for being delivered by proxy, John laughing from beyond the grave. He wanted to dig the bastard up and kill him again, bare handed, like his non-grandfather had tried with the commander of the Japanese prison camp. "We need to stop," Jensen repeated firmly. He stood up. "We'll do this again maybe in six months, but that's as far as we need to go now."

Blythe didn't even look at him. "I'm so . . . I apologize, Greg. I didn't know what he meant by it. I thought he really did want peace finally, and that's why I asked you to come give it. I didn't realize . . ." She started crying.

"No, you asked _Wilson_ to bring me, and he and Lisa drugged and kidnapped me and hauled me down there,"

Cuddy, who had been trying to divert her husband's attention, lost control totally herself in her own surge of guilt. She rocketed off the couch to her feet and nearly collided with Jensen, who was just about to physically insert himself between the two. They did make an effective double barrier, and House stared at both of them as if just now remembering they were in the room. Blythe was still crying but also glaring at Cuddy. "You _drugged _and _kidnapped _him? How could you do a thing like that?"

"How could _I _do a thing like that? Because I didn't _know_ yet, and it's not like I had 18 years of constant first-hand observation while it was happening, either, unlike some of the rest of us here."

"STOP IT!" None of them had ever heard Jensen's voice truly raised before. Action froze as if a referee's whistle had blown, and the other three stared at him. "This session and all other sessions for this visit are _over_. That is enough. We're tearing things up now instead of helping." The psychiatrist looked from one to the other of them, including Cuddy in his gaze. "All of you agreed to the rules up front. We aren't going to talk anymore about the past. Period." He waited for a moment, almost daring them to protest. Nobody spoke. "Sit down," he said. Cuddy sat back down. The other two had never gotten up, but they were watching Jensen now, not each other. Blythe was still crying softly. Jensen stood there for a moment, then went back to the recliner and sat down himself. "We're just going to have a nice, pleasant evening together - or separately, if required - for the rest of it. Okay?"

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said after a moment, throwing it into the room in general, though she meant it for the psychiatrist and her husband. House, the tension thawing just a little bit, leaned over to kiss her. She could still feel him trembling slightly beneath her hands. She snuggled up closer to him, and the living room was silent for a few minutes other than Blythe's decreasing tears. She finally stopped crying. The whole group collectively seemed to be starting to breathe again.

"What are you going to do tomorrow?" Jensen asked finally. A perfectly polite, casual comment. The previous scene might never have happened.

"Something with the girls," Blythe suggested tentatively. "Why don't we all go to the mall? Good after Christmas sales, interesting people for you to watch, Greg."

"That sounds good, although the girls can't take it too long," Cuddy said. _House_ couldn't take it too long, the walking, but he would enjoy the people watching, and the girls would enjoy the activity and excitement. Rachel loved Build-a-Bear.

"Breakfast at IHOP first?" House suggested.

Blythe smiled. "I know the girls will enjoy that."

"Not just the girls," Cuddy said, trying hard. One nice family day, and the visit was over. "But first," she said, "we'll all sleep late."

House snorted. "You are incapable of sleeping late. The world would end without yoga at 5:00."

"Well tomorrow, we'll find out. I won't even set the clock. We'll all sleep in, at least as long as the girls will allow, and then once they wake up, we'll go to IHOP and then to the mall."

Slowly, the conversation became less stiff. Cuddy got them all some herbal tea after a while, and House at her request played the piano. No serenade tonight, mostly quiet blues. The music relaxed him as usual, but he was also looking more and more tired to her eyes. Jensen got up eventually to go into the room where he was staying and call Melissa and Cathy - also giving the atmosphere a trial without him there, not that he came out and said so, but House thought it was obvious.

The psychiatrist was looking a bit worried as he came back out some time later. House looked up from the piano, tilting his head and studying the other man closely. "What's wrong?" he asked. The music never faltered, but there was definite veiled concern, not just interest, behind his tone.

Jensen sat back down in the recliner. "Probably not much. Melissa just sounds a little off tonight."

"Maybe she's missing you," Blythe suggested.

"I mean physically. Not that she said so, but she didn't quite seem like herself to me. She's probably coming down with a sinus infection - she gets them a couple of times each winter, usually after a big weather shift. It's been a lot colder since last Friday. If she seems worse tomorrow, I'll suggest she call for antibiotics if she doesn't decide that herself."

"Honey," Cuddy stated firmly. "Herbal tea and honey. Great combination."

"And an even better one with antibiotics," House noted, still playing. "Why don't you drive on home tonight? Not like we're going to be doing anything else shrinkish here anyway."

Jensen hesitated, clearly tempted but also not 100% convinced of the status here. He looked from House to Blythe and back to Cuddy.

House rolled his eyes. "You want to come to IHOP with us tomorrow? Seriously, go on home. You can have three days of your week off with your family instead of two."

"Go ahead," Blythe encouraged him.

The psychiatrist sighed. "Promise me that you won't discuss the past anymore. The rest of this visit is pure family time."

"I promise," Blythe said immediately, with Cuddy as a delayed echo. Jensen looked at House.

"Go on already," House said. "We've already done Christmas weekend all together without you, and it went fine." He didn't look rebellious. In fact, he looked exhausted, drooping a little at the keyboard now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

"Okay." Jensen yielded. "I would like to check on her in person, not just by phone." He retreated to the guest room, returning in a few minutes with his suitcase in one hand and the CD of Timothy Thornton in the other. He planned to listen to it on the drive home. "Good night, everyone, and don't do anything serious tomorrow."

"We won't," Blythe promised. "And thank you for this, Dr. Jensen. I do think it helped. Maybe we can have another round in six months."

"Thanks," House said awkwardly. He was still playing.

Jensen looked back at Cuddy. She was watching her husband, and then she turned to face him and gave him a reassuring smile. "Thank you. Tell your family thanks for us, too."

"I will." Jensen left, and she locked the door after him. House yawned at the piano, and Blythe looked over at him affectionately.

"Sleeping in sounds good to me, too," she said. "I'm kind of tired." House looked beyond kind of tired. "Lisa, were you two going to use your hot tub tonight? I've been meaning to try it. Nice relaxing soak, and then I'm going to bed."

Cuddy looked at House. "No, not tonight. You can have it, Blythe. I think we'll just go to bed early. I'm worn out myself."

House finished his current meandering melody and stiffly stood up. "Go ahead, Mom."

She hugged him as he limped slowly past her, and he rolled his eyes but stood for it with a martyred expression. "Good night, Greg."

"Night, Mom." He limped on to the bedroom, trailed by his white shadow, and Cuddy began collecting teacups as Blythe went into the main bathroom to start her soak.

(H/C)

The hall seemed to lengthen as House walked down it, but he finally made the bedroom door. He entered, carefully checking for Belle, but she scooted through promptly, right on his heels. He shut the door. No doubt Cuddy would have to obsessively tidy up a little first. By the time House got changed into sleep clothes, he felt like he had just run a marathon, a feeling he did remember from many years ago. He lay down on the bed, and the mattress seemed to pull him down into it. Maybe Jensen had a point. At the moment, he didn't feel capable of going on, whether they were finished with the past or not. He closed his eyes, then opened them again as whiskers tickled his chin. Belle had walked up his stomach and chest and was now sniffing his face with concern, nearly eye to eye with him. "I'm fine," he informed her. He let his eyes drift back shut.

He was almost asleep by the time Cuddy entered the bedroom. "Greg?" She touched his cheek softly. She had talented hands herself, he thought.

"Mmm?"

"Were you planning to sleep on top of the covers all night?"

"I wasn't sleeping. Waiting for you."

"Well, I'm here now. Hadn't you better move?"

He didn't want to move. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and shifted off the bed long enough for her to turn it down. He climbed back in, and she helped lift his leg up carefully and get it in a comfortable position. Her hands were searching it, seeking cramps. There weren't any at the moment. It just hurt. "Have you had your meds yet?" she asked.

"No." That meant moving again.

She gave his shoulder a pat. "I'll get you a glass of water. Just a minute." She returned and sorted the doses out herself, and he finally opened his eyes again long enough to take the pills - and to see the worry in hers.

"I'm okay," he reassured her. "Just tired."

"Gee, I wonder why." She took the glass back from him, set it down on the nightstand, and then a few minutes later climbed in under the covers next to him and turned off the light. They slid together like magnets. "I didn't set the alarm clock."

"You'll wake up anyway," he mumbled drowsily.

"If I do, I won't do yoga," she promised. "I'll just lie here and watch you."

Part of him was amazed that she still wanted to, that she wasn't tired of him yet. Another part was too tired to dissect the thought tonight. She was warm and reassuring right next to him, and Belle was on his leg, kneading softly, her purr audible in the room. The last thing he heard was Cuddy's voice. "I'm proud of you." His fingers flexed, tightening on hers, and he let himself drop down the tunnel of sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: The next week, this weekend through next, is going to be quite busy. For one thing, work has to pick up at some point after Thanksgiving. I hope. I do, in theory, have a full-time job, even if it's been hit and miss the last two weeks. For another, this next week is the Christmas music season rush hour, and between now and the 9th, I have three group concerts (two of those on the same day) and am singing once alone. Plus rehearsals, dress rehearsals, etc. I will do my best to get at least the next chapter up during the next week, because that's the one where Thornton re-enters things, but if you don't get anything else, or don't even get that one, just remember patience is a virtue. :) This story isn't going anywhere; it's all worked out mentally and is one of my top favorites in the series. But for the next week, it's going to take a back seat to music.

Thanks for the reviews. They are virtual pay to the author.

Enjoy chapter 11.

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up at 5:03 with a guilty surge of being late. She looked at the clock, then remembered that they were all sleeping in today. Settling back against the pillow, she tried to switch off her body's alarm clock, but it didn't seem to have a snooze function. Falling back on her non-yoga plans, she rolled onto her side and looked at her husband. Moonlight reflecting off the snow spilled through the window; a fine, clear, cold night. The whole city, like the house, seemed quiet right now, asleep itself.

It had been a fairly peaceful night. She had been up once with the girls, but aside from that, the only thing requiring her attention in the night was that Blythe had left the main bathroom light on when she left after her soak. Grumbling appropriate things under her breath - couldn't the woman do _anything_ correctly? - Cuddy had switched it off after dealing with the girls, then headed back to bed, promising herself that one more day would fulfill their dose of Blythe in person until the summer, hopefully. She could last one more day.

Now, she lay there watching House and replaying the conversations over the last few days. She was still angry at Blythe, but she reminded herself firmly that they had to have peace today. Jensen was trusting their word, for one thing, and the psychiatrist had done so much for them that she didn't want to let him down. House's face, now unguarded in sleep, was an even greater motivation. She could see the stresses of this visit, could almost trace each new revelation. His sleep, too, wasn't quite sound, even if it also wasn't quite nightmares. He had had enough of this, probably even more than enough, and it was indeed time to stop. Cuddy vowed to have a nice family day today with Blythe even if the self-control required promised to more than replace yoga as her exercise for today.

So _John_ had thought up the eulogy idea. So typical of the bastard; she couldn't believe she had never considered that option. Many people prearranged their funerals, after all, and John, dying of cancer, had known for several months that he was on the way out. She pictured his sadistic smile as he wrote up his funeral service, and she wished again that he weren't dead just so she could have the pleasure herself. As always when thinking about the funeral, her own guilt was also still there. She had apologized profusely, and House had forgiven her long since, but it still had been wrong. With or without knowledge of his past, she and Wilson had had no right to force him to attend.

House shifted, falling into another dream, and she took his hand in hers, holding it tightly and stroking his face with the other until he settled down under her touch. She traced each stress and pain line lovingly, longing to remove them even while appreciating in a way the hard-fought victories they represented. He had survived it, had overcome incredible obstacles, and life was good now. Eventually, she moved beyond them, just admiring him. The incomparable eyes, now closed, which left her free to remember all of their moods in turn. The strength of character in every line of his chiseled face. His musician's hands. His grandfather's hands.

That made her think of Thornton again. Maybe next Christmas, she promised. She would love to get him here and let House see the girls reacting to him. She was sure the girls would love Thornton. The last few days had confirmed beyond any doubt, not that she'd had one, where House got his intelligence and insight.

Yet Blythe was his mother, and he would always love her. There was John's threat, of course, flipping the responsibility of protection onto him, but he loved Blythe for herself, too. Love never had completely made sense, after all. Besides, she understood parts of it. He had told Cuddy a few times that Blythe had been there, the only even occasionally positive aspect of his childhood. With her, he could sometimes pretend things were different. Cuddy could see how even an occasional, imperfect oasis would be a priceless treasure if it was the only respite you had.

House shifted again, less dreams and more his leg starting to wake up and press on his mind, and Cuddy looked at the clock, surprised that she had been watching him and thinking for nearly two hours. The sun was coming to life, but the house remained still, even the girls late this morning. Cuddy considered the possibilities of a true morning leg warm-up, then decided they didn't have time. Doing anything spontaneously in the morning was impossible. He always had to carefully coax his leg into compliance first after the night of immobility, and even with her help, it took a while. Better to postpone making love until tonight when there was less risk of the girls interrupting. They could make it a celebration, Christmas and the tough conversations afterwards over, life once again getting down to their happy family, or would at least as soon as Blythe was delivered to the airport tomorrow. She would go along herself, Cuddy decided, and simply be late to work. She wanted to make sure no further serious conversation occurred. House had had enough for now.

His face tightened up, and Belle shifted her hold atop him, getting a little more securely on his leg. Cuddy met the cat's golden eyes and smiled. Belle was such a part of the family unit herself, even if she did chase paper and sometimes scratch closed doors, and House loved her. Technically, she was Rachel's cat, but she was closest to House, and Cuddy almost got a feeling at times that there was feline understanding present in a way, that Belle appreciated some of the same qualities in him that she herself did.

Rachel. She was such an animal lover. Maybe she would be a veterinarian eventually, something along those lines. Jensen's stuffed purring kitten had been a big hit, and Thornton's horse had been an even bigger one. Cuddy was glad that Rachel seemed to be finding other interests besides the music that she simply wasn't gifted at.

Thornton.

House's eyelids flickered and opened, and he looked at her, adorably drowsy and rumpled at the moment. "You didn't get up."

"No. Haven't gone anywhere. I did wake up, but I've just been watching you." She leaned over to him.

Belle shifted off during the kiss and jumped down, heading into their bathroom where she had her own comfort station. Cuddy was careful not to put too much movement or pressure on his leg, but that took only a small part of her attention, and she was smiling as they finally broke apart. "Good morning," she said.

"Getting better all the time," he agreed. "Any sound from the others?"

"Not a peep. Everybody's taking that sleeping late thing seriously."

"Good." He craned his neck to see past her to the clock and did some mental math himself, coming reluctantly to the same conclusion she had.

"Probably not. The girls won't stay down much longer. I'm surprised they're not awake already. Not so surprised at your mother; she seems to like late mornings."

"Partly reaction, I think. John ran the house like the Marines. Nobody ever got to sleep in. She didn't really like mornings, but she was up with the rest of us. She probably enjoys it now as a change, a new luxury."

She hadn't considered that. Yes, even if John hadn't been abusive to her, he had been controlling and regimented to a fault, and Blythe was gradually coming out of the box she'd been stuffed in, enjoying new hobbies and pleasures during her retirement. House had mentioned once to Cuddy that Jensen thought that was why Blythe loved travel clubs, even though she had been all over the world during her marriage. Doing it without John was a vacation itself. House tightened up his grip on Cuddy's arm. "Hey. We're not supposed to do anything serious today. No bad thoughts."

"They weren't bad thoughts, just different thoughts. And you're the one who brought it up."

His blue eyes sparkled. "Sorry." The next few moments were interrupted by his leg, though, as he rolled a bit too far. Cuddy felt him flinch and immediately let go, sliding out of bed and going around to his side, reaching for the offended muscle. He sighed and lay back, letting her deal with it, enjoying her hands but annoyed at the specific need for them right now.

"Lisa?"

"What?"

"What were you thinking about right before I woke up?"

"I was just lying there admiring you," she told him, but he shook his head.

"No, not just then. You were running a differential on something. Let me guess: Thornton?"

Her hands never stopped working, tenderly waking up the muscle and working out the threatened cramps. "I was thinking about Rachel and how well he picked a gift for her."

"And wishing I'd invite him up here. Weren't you?"

She sighed. "It's up to you, Greg. I've told you that. I'll support you whatever you decide."

"But you wish I'd decide to let him be their grandfather," he persisted.

She finished her massage and sat down on the bed beside him, and he carefully started gentle range of motion exercises on his leg. She picked up his hand, playing with the fingers. "I understand being cautious," she said, going slowly, trying to pick the right words. "And I cannot imagine what your past was like. I don't blame you at all for being mad at him and wanting to be extra sure. But sometimes, I get the feeling that you almost think he's running for election, that you can vote him in or out of the position. He _is_ their grandfather, Greg. No matter what you decide, whether he ever sees them or not. And yes, I'll support you in it, but you're not going to be able to keep him from being their grandfather. That was decided biologically already."

He looked away, the lines of his face harder suddenly. Belle jumped back onto the bed and walked up to brush against his free hand, positioning herself, and he absentmindedly scratched her ears. "We're not supposed to talk about serious things today," he reminded her.

She yielded for the moment. The seed was planted; time to leave it alone. "I'm sorry." She leaned over for a kiss, a less physically restricted one that time, and of course, that was when Rachel woke up. They parted laughing.

"I'll get them." She started for the door, leaving him the privacy he wanted to get out of bed and test his leg. His voice stopped her with her hand on the knob.

"We have a good family now," he said, very softly.

"Yes, we do." She was puzzled for a moment, then connected the dots. "You're afraid to do anything that might rock the boat, aren't you? Greg, it's not going to be taken away, no matter what happens with Thornton. We're not going anywhere."

"Mama?" Rachel was just outside the door now.

"Go on," House grumbled, dismissing the moment he himself had started.

Cuddy unlocked the door and opened it, going through quickly and closing it again, keeping Rachel's attention. House slowly, thoughtfully, got out of bed, testing his leg. "What are you looking at? Go get in your new box or something," he snarled at Belle, who was supervising the process closely, and she had the audacity to purr at him, ignoring his annoyed tone. Reassured that his leg wasn't about to collapse, he limped to their little bathroom. A few minutes later, when he was dressed, he exited the bedroom. Cuddy was just leaving the main bathroom with both girls in tow.

"Daddy!" Rachel charged at him, though she was careful to pick the good leg to attach herself to.

"Good morning!" He gave her a hug and then gave Abby one. "We're all going to IHOP for breakfast. Pancakes. How does that sound?"

"Yay!" Rachel galloped toward the front door, and Cuddy called her back.

"Rachel, we have to get dressed first. I'll get them dressed, Greg, and you can wake up your mother. I don't think we can postpone breakfast too much longer now that they're up."

"Okay." He picked up Abby for a squeeze and whispered, "Pancakes," in her ear as a promise. She giggled, and he set her back down on her feet. "Go on with Mama, Abby." The girls and Cuddy went back into the nursery, and House moved on down the hall to the first guest bedroom, tapping quietly on the door, then opening it. "Mom? Time to get up and go out for breakfast."

Blythe was still in bed with the covers pulled up tightly, her head turned away from him, and he walked across to give her shoulder a gentle shake. She didn't respond, lying absolutely, coldly still, and in the brief, eternal moment before he shouted for Cuddy, the only sound in the deathly quiet room was his own breathing.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger last time, but this story is in for a long unsnarling of this mess, and not everything will be fixed even by the end of it. So buckle up for a lengthy ride. Here's the next chapter. From tomorrow on, every single day this week has either a rehearsal or a concert, so don't count on more until after the weekend. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

For Cuddy, that morning was always remembered later as a series of disconnected impressions, jerky, time itself disrupted.

House, desperately trying to give Blythe CPR while demanding that Cuddy call for EMS. Cuddy could see herself that it was no use; Blythe was already stiff, obviously long dead. But her son was frantic, determined to pull her back regardless of medical facts.

The girls. They had been terrified, of course, as the morning erupted around them. They were more frightened for their father than for Blythe, and it was only that that had finally pulled him away from his mother and made him give up.

Wilson. Her second call after 911 had been to Wilson, knowing she needed immediate backup here. He and Sandra had been about to leave for work, their nanny already there with Daniel, and they both came over instead, arriving even before the body had been zipped into the bag and removed. She had never been more grateful to them.

That bathroom light left on. Had Blythe started feeling unwell during her soak and been so focused on getting to bed that she hadn't had energy to spare to turn it off? But there were two doctors just down the hall, only a few feet farther. If she were ill, why on earth hadn't she called them? What if Cuddy had checked on her in the middle of the night instead of just turning the light off? Would help have been possible then? Probably not, but she still wondered.

That last fight. Blythe crying on the couch as Cuddy ripped into her for the past. Had they pushed her into a heart attack or something? But she had seemed _fine_ later, hadn't said anything about feeling off, and it was nearly two hours after that that they had gone to bed early and Blythe had gone for her hot soak.

Cuddy's own thoughts after waking up. She had been lying there thinking about getting rid of Blythe - not fatally, of course, but definitely thinking about it and enjoying the prospect of having her back out of their lives. And the whole while, during those thoughts, Blythe had already been dead.

Anger. Blythe had in her exit proven once again that she had absolutely no sense of timing. Damn it, couldn't she have made it home to her own bed first, far removed from the last few days, and been found by a neighbor?

What had killed her? Had they contributed to it?

And what was going to happen with House now?

(H/C)

The policeman stood in front of the group on the couch, trying inadequately to block the sight as the body bag was carried through the living room and out the front door. He would rather deal with criminals any day than these kind of calls. Right at Christmas, too. Poor family. He remembered seeing House on TV back in the summer, putting that creep Chandler away. "The ME will want an autopsy before he signs the certificate, just because she wasn't local and wasn't under a doctor's treatment here, but that's just standard procedure."

"I want an autopsy anyway," House said. His voice sounded as numb as the rest of him, and Cuddy didn't think it was a result of the Ativan she had made him take earlier, something he had resisted but then agreed to for the girls' sake. He was sitting on the couch with both girls and Belle in his lap. His face was pale, and his eyes looked absolutely haunted. Cuddy was next to him, holding his hand, but she wondered how much he even felt it.

The door shut behind the crew removing Blythe, and the policeman turned toward the door himself. He was done here. The deceased had been in bed, perfectly peaceful, no note, no pills, no obvious wounds, nothing that seemed unnatural. The routine questions had already been asked - when they saw her last, health history (bad car accident two and a half years ago with some residual balance issues but nothing else they knew of), and she had seemed perfectly fine last night when they went to bed, had been going to take a hot soak. She was of the right age for new medical problems, though. Probably had a heart attack or something, brought on by the hot tub. "I'll be leaving now. I'm really sorry, Dr. House."

House flinched, a reaction he hadn't had to that phrase in a while. Cuddy gave him a kiss as the policeman left, as much of one as she could across two girls and a cat, but he didn't respond. She tightened up her grip, and he finally looked over at her.

"I didn't think she was that upset," he said. The expression in his eyes scared her, for him and for all of them.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Wilson advised him. "It's not like it happened in the middle of one of your talks. We don't even know _what_ happened yet. This could have no connection at all to what you'd been doing the last few days."

House looked away. "Still believe in the tooth fairy, too?"

"James is right," Sandra put in. "We ought to wait for more details. You said she seemed okay last night. Things just happen sometimes with people that age."

"Especially when they're stressed," House pointed out.

Cuddy tightened her grip on his hand until she was hurting her own fingers, determined to reach him. "Stop it. We're all just guessing at this point."

"What was that?" Rachel asked after a moment.

"What?" Cuddy said, hoping she was wrong.

"The big sack."

Cuddy sighed. "They took Grandma away."

"In a sack?" Abby was still leeched onto her father and looking at him, worried, but Rachel, now that the earlier frantic activity had settled down, was starting to notice more details.

"She was dead, Rachel," House said. He cringed on the word. So short, so final, like a verbal slap. No more chances, no more talks. No more anything.

"What's dead?"

House did respond to that, looking over at Cuddy with an expression of pure helplessness. How did you explain that to a 2- and 3-year-old?

Cuddy was floundering herself, but she dutifully tried. "It means . . . her body stopped working. She's not inside it anymore. Kind of like going to sleep, only she won't ever wake up. We aren't going to see her again."

"Never?"

Cuddy nodded. "Never. Sometimes that just happens with older people." And sometimes with younger ones, too, but she wasn't about to mention that to her daughters. She wished they could be left out of this train wreck totally, but they had already been there at the beginning, had seen House with Blythe. No chance to shield them completely from this day. It was probably better to try to answer a few questions as simply as possible.

Rachel was silent for a few minutes, trying to digest that. "I'm hungry," she said finally.

New guilt surged in for Cuddy. "Breakfast. Damn it, I totally forgot breakfast. We were going to go out to eat."

Wilson and Sandra immediately stood up, glad for a need easily fixed. "We'll make something," Sandra said.

"Daddy said pancakes," Rachel specified.

"Okay, we'll make pancakes. I make good pancakes," Wilson promised her.

Rachel scrambled down and trotted after them, wanting to supervise pancakes first hand. Cuddy looked back at her husband. "Greg, this wasn't your fault."

"Now who's guessing?" he fired back at her. "And you're blaming yourself, too. It sure wasn't yours; I'm the one who had this whole brilliant idea. She was 75, Lisa. I'm a doctor, and I decided it would _help_ things to run a 75-year-old through two days like that." He hadn't even been thinking about her age until this morning, but she was the same age as Thornton. "But I didn't think she was that upset." Last night, when help probably could have made a difference, he had completely missed it.

Abby was looking from one to the other of them, eyes far too old for her face. She spoke up now into the silence. "Go potty."

Cuddy picked her up and stood. "Okay. You're getting to be a big girl now, aren't you?"

They headed for the bathroom, and House stood up and limped quickly over to the desk, taking advantage of the few unsupervised minutes. He fired up the laptop and quickly searched, finding the Mercer County Medical Examiner's office, adding the number into his cell phone. Next bathroom trip he himself made, he would call and ask them to inform him of the time of the autopsy once it was scheduled. The authorities in Princeton knew him well after the Chandler media circus. Hopefully they would do him that favor.

That chore done, he hesitated for a moment, then pulled up email. He sent off a 2-word message to Thornton - _Mom's dead_ - and then closed the computer down. When Cuddy and Abby returned, he was once again sitting on the couch in the same spot with the worried cat back in his lap.

(H/C)

House managed about five bites of their delayed breakfast, and Cuddy only got further than that by trying to play normal in front of the girls. After breakfast, she left Wilson and Sandra monitoring things and went back to their bedroom, pulling out her cell phone, calling Jensen. If House had ever needed him, he needed him now.

The psychiatrist answered on the second ring. "Dr. Cuddy? Is everything all right?"

She dove in full speed. "No, we've got a hell of a mess here. Blythe died late last night."

A few seconds of stunned silence. "But I didn't think she was that upset."

Cuddy closed her eyes and wondered if it would help to scream and pull her hair out. She got mad instead. "Listen, damn it. He _needs _you right now, and not just so you two can compare who can hit yourself over the head harder. We have to have you on board to get him through this; nobody else can substitute. So whatever you're thinking or feeling yourself, get your act together and _talk_ to him. Can you manage that?"

"Hold on a minute." She heard his quick apology to his family, and then he obviously retreated to a private room somewhere. "What happened?" he asked.

"We don't know yet. She seemed fine last night, but she was already stiff this morning. She had to have died right after she went to bed."

"And everything was peaceful after I left?"

She flinched, remembering her own near blow-up during that last session. "Yes. We went to bed early right after that, and she was going to take a soak in the hot tub. She left the light on when she got out; maybe she was feeling ill then. But if she was, why wouldn't she come get us?"

"Was he the one who found her?"

"Yes. Damn it. Not that this was going to be easy anyway, even without that."

Jensen sighed. He was _trying_ to wrap his head around things, she could tell, and she suddenly felt guilty for snapping at him a minute ago. He was human, after all, and he had had all of two seconds to adjust to the news. Of course he would be shaken up by it himself and wonder about his role. "I'll talk to him briefly, but he doesn't need a session right now. This is going to be a long-term process."

"I know. I think he's in shock this morning, at least once he gave up trying to revive her, but he's definitely blaming himself."

"What about the girls?"

"They were terrified. More for him, I think. They've never seen him act like that. It was only them being so scared that got him off of her, though. They seem calmer now, but still worried, especially Abby. Rachel had a few questions. I tried to answer them."

"Good. Is anybody else there with you now? You all need a friend with you more than you need a psychiatrist today."

"I called Wilson. He and Sandra came over."

"Excellent. He needs people around right now, and so do you. Don't let him be alone, okay?"

"I won't." She sighed. "What on earth are we going to do?"

"Right now, just be there. He wouldn't listen to much yet, so don't try to debate guilt with him. He's not ready to hear anything else besides what he's telling himself. Long term, we'll have a lot to deal with, but right now, the goal is simply to get through the next few days, one day at a time."

She cringed. "The funeral. We'll have to have a funeral. He couldn't even get into the building at Dr. Hadley's without a panic attack, but he'll probably make himself do it this time, just as punishment or something."

"Probably. Don't argue with him about things, Dr. Cuddy. Just be there. But don't try to take everything on yourself, either. Let your friends help, and take a few minutes for yourself now and then. Hang in there. I'll talk to him briefly, but he wouldn't take a session right now anyway, and besides that. . . I'd be afraid to have one with him immediately. I need a little time to think through things." He sounded guilty himself at the admission, as if he were letting them down.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you earlier. This wasn't your fault."

"Nor yours," he countered. There was a dubious silence on both sides for a moment. "Let me talk to Dr. House."

"All right. Thank you. How's your wife, by the way?"

"We called her doctor this morning for antibiotics. She'll be fine. Just sinusitis."

"Good. I'll go get him now." Cuddy opened the bedroom door and went down the hall. Her husband was back on the couch, holding the girls, still looking like a zombie. Wilson was trying to talk to him. Cuddy handed him her cell phone. "Greg, it's Jensen. Talk to him for a minute, okay?" He hesitated. "Just for a minute. He doesn't want to have a session." Slowly, House took the phone. Wilson and Cuddy each picked up a girl, and House stiffly stood up and limped back to the bedroom.

Cuddy dropped into the couch, and even though she had never been very devout with her religion, she prayed.

(H/C)

House limped into the bedroom and closed the door, then reopened it immediately at the imperative scratch, accompanied by a meow that left no room for discussion. Belle came through, and he closed it again. The white cat was already on the bed by the time he got there to sit down. The bed was still unmade, part of his mind noticed. Cuddy was really upset by this.

He picked up the phone. "So go ahead and give me the shrink spiel. In fact, I can condense your speech for you: It's not your fault. Okay, got that, so why waste more time talking to me?"

Jensen didn't sound quite his usual steady self. "I don't want to have a session with you right now," he repeated. "You aren't in any shape for one, and I'm not sure I am either."

That derailed House's predicted script, at least. "You think it's _your_ fault? Geez, the three of us ought to get together to compare notes. We can take turns not blaming each other and all not believing it."

"Assigning fault isn't going to change anything. Besides, from what I understand, we don't even know what happened yet. I'm assuming there will be an autopsy?"

"Yeah. ME is requiring it, but I'd want one anyway." House defaulted back to the thought foremost in his mind at the moment. "I'm the one who came up with this bright idea in the first place."

Jensen didn't take up the debate. "I wanted you to know something her psychiatrist told me when I was talking to him on the phone. I _did_ ask him, specifically asked him, what kind of shape she was in physically. He said other than stable mild balance issues from her head injury when she was hit by a car, she was okay for her age. He'd asked her himself a few times over the years if she saw a doctor regularly, and she said she did. She'd had mild hypertension for years, controlled on Norvasc. That was it, as far as he knew."

"I didn't know about the hypertension. I saw her chart in the hospital a few years ago, but I was focused on the injuries right then and the surgeries she'd had. Her shrink didn't mention anything cardiac? She was trying out the hot tub last night. If she did have CAD, that would be a mistake. The vasodilation pretty much reproduces exercise."

"No, no heart disease. He told me that. The thing is, we had no reason medically to expect her to be in critical danger. That's not just an opinion; that much is actual data. Let's wait for more details on what happened, okay?"

"I didn't think she was that upset," House said again.

"I didn't either, Dr. House. But I wanted you to know about the medical information, such as it was. We don't have enough data right now. But call me when you know the results of the autopsy, all right?"

"I will."

"And keep an eye on Dr. Cuddy. This is going to be hard on her, too."

"Yeah." Belle was on his leg, kneading softly. House abruptly realized that he had strained it that morning trying to give Blythe CPR. He hadn't even noticed it giving him hell.

"Keep in touch, Dr. House. We will get into all of this, and we will get _through_ all of this, but not right now, okay? Right now, you just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But your family is with you. So are your friends. I'll let you go now."

House was surprised. "You're not even going to try to sneak a session in the back door?"

"No. This isn't the time. You can call me anytime if you want to talk."

House sighed. "I will."

"Goodbye for now. I'm here, though."

Jensen hung up, and House looked at Belle. Her unblinking eyes were locked onto his. Even the cat looked worried. He scratched her ears. Abruptly, the silence of the room pressed in on him; Belle wasn't purring right now, not even when touched. The image of the other bedroom flashed back into his mind, his mother cold and stiff in the bed, all his efforts to fix what he'd done coming too late. He shivered. Belle stood, jumped down, and walked back to the door, staring at him pointedly. "So _you're_ a shrink now?" he asked her. She reared up, not scratching but resting her feet on the closed door, asking to get out this time, not in. With another sigh, he came to his feet and followed her.

(H/C)

Late that morning, the cell phone rang, and House pulled it out quickly, expecting a call from the medical examiner's office about the time of the autopsy. It was Thornton. House glared at the small screen. Thornton had never called him, never, and now, of course, he had read the email and wanted to play father and pass along routine sympathetic crap in a situation so far from routine that it could never get there even with Mapquest. House stuffed the cell back in his pocket, resisting with difficulty the urge to just turn it off. He didn't want to miss that call from the ME.

Wilson looked at him oddly. "Hadn't you better answer that?" Cuddy and Rachel had just gone back to the bathroom; Wilson and Sandra were his twin babysitters of the moment.

"There's voice mail for a reason," House snarled. It did go to voice mail apparently but started ringing again 30 seconds later. Thornton wasn't going to leave a message; he wanted to talk. House clenched his teeth so tightly that his jaw started hurting. The call went to voice mail the second time and promptly rang again. Abby was looking at her father oddly now, her puzzled eyes totally lost, trying and failing to understand the adults today.

House pulled the cell phone back out. Obviously, Thornton wasn't going to give up. Fine, then. Ripping somebody verbally to shreds would feel good today. He passed Abby off to Wilson as he stood up and answered. "What the hell do you want?"

Thornton's voice was steady, if tense, and he did not start out with routine sympathy. "I have some information you might need, Greg. Also an offer if you're interested."

Not the opening he'd expected. House limped to the front door and went outside, leaving the audience of the living room. The front porch was cold but at least private, and his girls wouldn't have to hear this. He couldn't resist a question before the attack, though. "What information?"

"Do you know what Blythe wanted at her funeral service?"

The funeral. His insides knotted up again more tightly on the thought. "Oh sure, we'd talked about that all the time. Doesn't everybody? It makes such great conversation around the table, especially in front of young kids at Christmas."

Thornton didn't react to his tone. "I do know. Some, anyway. It was a brief conversation, but I remember it."

"When did you just happen to be talking about funerals with her? I thought you guys had John as the third wheel every time you visited after I was born."

"It was after John's funeral. Blythe invited me and Emily to the meal afterwards, and we were talking a little. Lots of people there, and one of them commented what a beautiful service it had been. Somehow, Blythe started talking about what she wanted herself eventually."

House closed his eyes. He didn't want to ask; it would be one more step toward having to make arrangements, a little closer to accepting the finality. Part of him, too, felt guilty that Thornton, a family friend, had known this, while he himself, her son, had not. He stalled. Cuddy would want to know; he knew that she would ultimately be the one putting together the funeral, knew that he would wimp out on that himself even if it was his place. Making himself go would take everything he had. He couldn't also be the one to set it up and discuss all the details with the funeral director and listen to the empty statements of 'comfort.' But Cuddy was feeling guilty, too. He hated dumping this on her, even while knowing he still would.

Thornton continued after a moment. "That brings me to the offer. If it would help you at all, Greg, I would be willing to make the funeral arrangements and set up Blythe's service."

House opened his eyes again, stunned. The sunlight glittering off the snow was bright, almost painful. Cars passed by. Life was moving on around the house, unaware. "Why would you want to do that?" he asked, and there was no harshness now in his voice, only bewilderment.

"To try to help you. I'm also assuming that I could be missing some relevant background here, since I missed just about everything else. I don't know if John ever used funerals against you, and I'm not asking for details, Greg; that doesn't matter at the moment. But even if nothing else is involved, she was your mother, and I know this is very hard on you. If you need to do it yourself, I understand and I'll pass along what I know about her wishes. But if it would be easier at all to have me deal with things, the offer is there."

"If you're just trying to earn points off of this," House started, suddenly suspicious.

Thornton interrupted him. "Greg, the last funeral I set up was Emily's. The one before that was a double for my son and daughter-in-law. I would _never_ use that process to try to score personally. There are too many memories there."

House took a few minutes, thinking about it. He was still suspicious, but this would spare Cuddy that chore, at least. "Okay," he yielded finally. "She mentioned yesterday that there was a prepaid deal already in Lexington; John bought a double package for them when he was about to die. But I'd be suspicious of any arrangements about the service on file for her. They're not necessarily her wishes. He probably was the one to set that up at the same time he was planning his service."

"_John_ prearranged his service? So it was _his_ idea to ask you for a eulogy?" The cold fury in Thornton's voice startled House.

"Yes."

Silence for a moment. He could hear Thornton breathing. Then his father obviously wrenched his thoughts back onto the task at hand. "I'll talk to the funeral home. They might need to call you for authorization, but beyond that, I'll deal with it."

"Just give her what she wanted, or make it up if you need more space. You knew her after all, in the Biblical sense, even." House abruptly had a thought. "One exception. I am _not_ giving a eulogy. I don't even want to know if she wanted that from me. I . . ." There was a lump in his throat suddenly. He knew he was being a coward, but damn it, that was too much. He couldn't stand up there in front of all of them playing standard son plus fighting John's funeral predictions that he would screw everything up at any funeral for all of them. He had already screwed it up, had practically driven her to the grave himself. She could at least have a competent funeral. "I can't."

"All right." House had never noticed how soothing Thornton's voice could be at times. "When did she die?"

He closed his eyes again. "Last night. In her sleep, but pretty early. They're doing an autopsy. Did she ever mention health problems to you?"

"No."

"Are you . . ." House started to ask suddenly, then broke off, wishing he could call the words back.

Thornton finished the thought. "I haven't got any chronic conditions except mild arthritis from an old service injury. Nothing except ibuprofen now and then. Overall, my ancestors were a pretty long-lived and healthy bunch, aside from planes, cars, and war."

"Nothing much we can do about those."

"One of them can be struck off the list, anyway. Even if we do add another war, I have no intention of signing up again."

"The family history is relevant to me medically, you know," House backtracked, not wanting it to sound like he was worried about Thornton personally.

"There are a few relatives who had colon cancer, but I don't. I've been screened."

Thinking of ancestors - and progeny - brought another point to mind for House, and the razor edge jumped back into his voice. "I'm not bringing the girls with me. They don't need to see something horrible like a funeral as young as they are. So this isn't your ticket to meet them; if that's what you're after, get lost."

"It's not my ticket to anything, Greg," Thornton repeated. "I'm not expecting it to be. I'm just trying to help."

House suddenly couldn't take this conversation any longer. He didn't understand it, and none of his test shots were finding targets. "I'm expecting a call from the ME's office about the autopsy."

"I'll let you go then. Goodbye, Greg."

He hit off and then stood there, totally puzzled now on top of the guilt and turmoil. What the hell was the man doing? Whatever his motives, better putting Thornton through it than Cuddy, though. He did apparently have relevant information, and if the process reminded him of his wife, that was no more than he deserved.

A minute after he had put the phone away, the door opened behind him, and Cuddy came out. She had his coat and put it on him; he hadn't even been aware he was shivering until then. They stood together in the cold, frosty air. "Thornton offered to arrange the funeral," he said finally. "He knows her wishes."

He felt Cuddy's surge of relief. She had been dreading that task herself. She didn't ask for more details of the call, though. Her arm was around him tightly, and between her and the coat, the shivering eventually almost stopped. "Let's go inside, Greg," she said finally. "It's cold out here." He turned around, not resisting, and they went back into the house.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: A short update in honor, sigh, of work being out for the first few hours this morning. Music week is going wonderfully, though. Reviews are virtual bucks to the author.

(H/C)

House sat at the piano, not playing, just sitting there, one hand touching the keyboard. Just last night, he had sat here playing the piano with his mother listening. Not even 24 hours ago. He tried to remember what the last thing she had said to him was. She had wished him good night. As many times as he replayed the evening, tried to study her for physical clues, looked for any indication in her behavior that she was feeling off, he couldn't find anything. After the session, once Jensen had enforced the halt, they had all had a peaceful evening, and there was nothing in the two hours between then and going to bed that stood out.

But should there have been? Was there something there that he _hadn't _noticed?

That last session. No escaping the fact that Jensen had tried to call time before it ended, and House had steamrollered over him and kept going. Was that the fatal minute there, the straw that broke the camel's back? Or the hot tub later? Or a combination? Or was it cumulative effect just over those two days? How could he have forgotten to take her age into account? He had felt utterly exhausted himself last night by the time he went to bed. What had she been feeling like? He should have gotten back up to check on her and ask.

He looked at his watch. The girls had finally gone down for their afternoon naps, although they both had been extremely reluctant to go to sleep, probably picking up on the turmoil of the day, and it had taken over an hour before they truly fell asleep about 2:00. He had been worried for a while that they wouldn't be asleep by the time he would have to leave, adding two more people to ask him questions. It was going to be hard enough to get away already. The ME's office had called him back earlier, and while he had kept his side of the conversation brief and ambiguous, he had learned that they were putting a rush on Blythe's case as a courtesy to him. The autopsy was scheduled at 3:30, and they had promised him at least preliminary results by the end of today.

He had no intention of waiting to get them.

House stood up casually, or at least tried to. Damned leg. Four sets of eyes, including Belle's, immediately zeroed in on him, and all conversation fell apart in mid sentence. Wilson and Sandra had been trying hard to talk on general subjects today, offering a distraction unless the other two seemed to want to talk about Blythe at any given moment. Cuddy herself looked in shock. House hadn't even looked in the mirror to see what he looked like. He could guess. Now he had to slip out in front of the assembled babysitters somehow. "I'm going for a drive," he announced. "Just need to think a little."

Cuddy hit her feet like a jack-in-the-box, and he couldn't suppress the stab of envy that ran through him any time he saw somebody jump up like that. "Great idea. I'll join you."

"I was going to take the bike," he countered. He hadn't been, actually. Not only was it snowy and cold, but his leg was already giving him hell.

Her eyes flickered toward his thigh for just a second, then came back to lock onto his. She had her stubborn look on, but he could almost hear the mental effort. Back six months ago at her meltdown, she had converted her stress and concern for him into unintentionally sharp comments about his leg. Now, she was almost visibly trying to avoid doing the same thing. She was silent for a moment, scrambling, filtering, and then she played her ace. "I'll ride along with you, then."

Annoyed respect flooded through him. Riding double was a little harder to balance even with a cooperative partner. There was no way he would risk her at it while his leg was hurting as much as it was right now. Even riding solo would have been harder than usual, and the cold air and exposure would only make things worse every mile. In one short reply, she had him over a barrel. "Just go ahead and say what you're thinking," he snapped. "The poor cripple isn't up to it today."

She flinched, and he felt bad for pushing her to the statement she had been trying so hard to avoid. She didn't back down, though. "All right, I will say what I'm thinking. I don't know what you're up to, Greg, but it isn't just taking a drive. But whatever it is, you're not going to do it alone."

"I'm just going out for a little while to think," he lied. "I'll be back before too long."

"I'm not stopping you." She put on her coat and offered him his. "But I _am_ going with you. Wilson and Sandra can stay here with the girls."

House looked at his watch again. Damn it, he really needed to get going to be there in time. "You didn't make the bed this morning," he said, hoping to distract her with something undone. Not that he really thought that would work.

Sandra and Wilson had been watching this whole exchange with concerned interest, and now Wilson came to his feet, the smooth motion again drawing House's attention. "I'll make it. Go ahead, you two. Have a nice drive."

House gave him a wounded look. "You're supposed to be on my side, damn it."

"I am," Wilson insisted. "And she's right." He also made a mental note to tidy up the guest room where Blythe had died while they were gone, not only making the bed but completely changing the sheets, trying to remove any visible reminders.

House growled under his breath and pushed on to the door, pointedly not taking his offered coat. Of course, Cuddy was far faster than he was, and she easily caught up with him just outside the door and put the coat over his shoulders anyway. She hesitated at him taking the wheel but decided to let that go, though she was watching him closely. House backed his car out and hit the road, still annoyed. Cuddy was silent. She did turn the heater up in the car, and slowly, as they drove, the air around them warmed. House almost resented it, even though his leg was grateful. Things _should_ be cold today.

Cuddy held her silence all through the drive through the city until he parked at the official lab where the ME's offices and facilities were located. Then the sign on the building connected in her mind, and her hard-held silence shattered. "_Hell_, no. You are _not_ going to watch the autopsy."

He looked at his watch - 3:20 - and stiffly exited the car, not wasting time arguing, simply starting to limp toward the building on leaden feet. Cuddy caught up and physically blocked him that time, putting herself firmly between him and the lab. "No, Greg."

He could feel his whole body shaking the closer he got, and he knew it wasn't from the cold. "Get out of the way." She didn't budge. "I need to do this, Lisa. I have to know why."

"No, that's not what this is about. You're _going_ to know why, Greg. They'll take care of that. But right now, you're just trying to punish yourself. You don't really want to do this; you just think you ought to make yourself do it to really see what you've done or something like that. It _wasn't your fault_, Greg."

"So now you're omniscient, too? Shame your perfect insight only works with other people." He tried to dodge. "Get the hell out of my way!"

She moved back in front of him, and this time, instead of just blocking, she seized him, embracing him tightly, not caring for once what the public might think. He fought her for a moment, but there was no strength in him. She could feel the tremors running through his body. "Easy, Greg," she said softly. "I'm here."

He leaned into her, even while putting up a token resistance. "I need to know," he repeated, mumbling the words into the top of her hair.

"You will. But not in person; that's too much."

At that moment, her cell phone rang. She cautiously released him with one arm, though he didn't seem to be going anywhere now. He was still trembling. She answered. "Wilson? What's wrong?"

House stepped back, his head jerking up, and she saw the naked fear in his eyes. His attention totally left the building behind her. "We're . . . we'll come back. Yes, straight back. About 20 minutes." She thrust the phone at House. "Here, try to talk to them, Greg. The girls are freaking out, and they won't calm down at all."

He took the phone quickly. "Wilson? Let me talk to them." Freaking out wasn't an exaggeration; he could hear them in the background in another room along with Sandra's inadequate efforts at reassurance. They had woken up to find both parents unexpectedly missing. Wilson walked to them quickly and tried to hand off the phone. "Abby? Rachel? It's okay, girls. We're fine. Nothing's wrong. We're coming home." He wasn't sure they could even hear him over the cries. He was barely aware of Cuddy steering him back toward the car to the passenger's seat and buckling him in. He kept trying to reach them, but they were still crying as she pulled into the driveway 15 minutes later. She left him behind for his slow exit and ran on to the door herself.

By the time House got there at a faster limp than he would have thought possible, they were both locked onto her, still crying, obviously terrified. He joined the group hug, holding them tightly. "We're here. We're fine," he murmured.

It was five minutes before the sobs had calmed down enough that the girls could talk. Rachel was the first to speak; Abby was still buried in his shoulder. "You not dead?" she asked. "Go away and not ever come back. Like Gramma."

House and Cuddy looked at each other with mutual dread. As if the day had needed one, they obviously had added another problem.


	14. Chapter 14

Afternoon plodded with weighted shoes toward evening. It was still not even 12 hours since he had found Blythe, yet the day seemed to have lasted an eternity to House.

The girls had taken quite a while to get calmed down. They seemed better finally, though still a bit subdued. A parent in another room, such as the bathroom for a minute or two, was apparently all right, but they watched them carefully any time they went near the front door. Cuddy was obviously muttering self-imprecations silently for the way she had explained death to them that morning, but she had at least tried, House remembered. He himself had completely passed the buck. Jensen was always telling him kids were resilient; hopefully reassurance would soak in fairly quickly. Blythe's absence itself didn't seem to bother them much, and when Sandra stood up just now to announce that she had to go get Daniel, as their nanny needed to leave, the girls gave only a passing look at her heading for the door. Sandra was consigned willingly to whatever lurked out there that made older people occasionally disappear. They were completely zeroed in on their parents right now.

"I'll come back," Sandra promised, addressing not just the girls but all of them. She wasn't sure how stable the situation was here yet.

Wilson looked at his watch. "Why don't you bring a pizza with you while you're at it?"

"Good idea," Cuddy said. Rachel perked up at the mention of pizza, but her usual enthusiastic vote and excited galloping circle were missing. She was on the couch, in her father's lap, holding the stuffed horse but not making it do anything at the moment. Cuddy, next to him on the couch, had Abby, and the girls had switched off once or twice so far, trying to keep in touch with both of them.

House's cell phone rang, and he pulled it out and checked the screen. "ME's office," he announced, and Sandra, the nurse, couldn't help pausing in her exit, one hand on the door. House let it ring another two times, both wanting the answer and not wanting it. Then, mentally calling himself a coward, he stabbed the button. "House."

"Dr. House, this is Dr. Richards." It was the ME himself this time, not just someone on his staff. "I've just completed the autopsy on your mother. She died of a heart attack."

House closed his eyes momentarily. Stress definitely could have played a role there. "There wasn't any history," he objected, desperately trying to fall back on Jensen's information.

"It must have been no _known_ history. She had a significant lesion in the LAD. The report mentioned she had been trying out your hot tub; that probably started things, and she just went on to bed hoping she'd feel better after a night's sleep."

"Yeah." Nobody had mentioned to the officials this morning that they had been running a psychiatric gauntlet for the last two days and had nearly had a full-scale family fight last night.

"There were some very interesting findings besides that, though."

House sat up a little straighter, diverted momentarily from guilt. "What?"

"She had metastatic cancer."

"She had _what?_" His mind took off at full speed, checking off symptoms. "Her weight looked about the same as last time I saw her several months ago. She didn't mention any symptoms at all." On the other hand, she also hadn't mentioned any last night, choosing to go to bed when she started feeling unwell instead of disturbing them.

"The abdomen was extensively seeded when I opened it. I spent a little time looking for a primary, and I believe it probably was the appendix. That was the largest focus I saw. No spread to the liver yet. But it was all through the peritoneal cavity, multiple tumors, even though still small ones, to the point it would have been very difficult to resect all of them. Widely metastatic. She died of a heart attack, but it's my professional opinion that she would have died within the next year anyway. I couldn't justify any more time on the public budget, since I've got the answer to her death. But just in case you want to do more testing, I did take several samples before closing. Do whatever you want with them, but it can't be through this office."

House almost felt dizzy, now trying to fit in missed symptoms for not only CAD but also abdominal cancer. Appendiceal cancer could be notoriously silent, though, and often metastasized before it was caught. Possibly Blythe hadn't yet started symptoms, though probably would have soon, and there might have been nothing on the surface that he had failed to observe there. She had to have been having cardiac symptoms, though, at least at the point she left that light on and went on to bed. Damn it, why hadn't she called them? They had been right down the hall. She possibly could have been saved then. Still with cancer, though. But cancer was treatable. Sometimes. He looked at Wilson. "Yes," he said, "I do want them. Send them over to PPTH. I'll take it from there."

"Okay. I'm signing off on the body now. You can go ahead with arrangements."

Arrangements. He still had to make himself go to the funeral, even if he wasn't planning it. "It will be in Lexington. A man named Thomas Thornton will contact you and make arrangements for shipping her back home. He's handling things."

The ME sounded slightly curious but didn't ask. "I'll make a note of it. I'm sorry, Dr. House."

House flinched and looked at Cuddy. She was watching him closely, trying to read his assorted reactions during this call. "Yeah. Got to go now."

"All right. Goodbye, Dr. House."

Richards hung up, and House slowly punched off. He looked up to find everybody in the room, including Sandra at the door, studying him. "Heart attack," he said softly. Cuddy cringed, and he could almost see her guilt index - and her concern index - take a quantum leap. "But she had metastatic cancer, too."

"Cancer?" Sandra echoed.

Wilson came to attention. "What was the primary? Where had it metastasized to?"

"He thinks probably the appendix, but it had spread to carcinomatosis throughout the abdomen. He took samples, but he can't process them on the taxpayer's dime."

Wilson nodded. "I'll check them out. If it was already that widely spread, though, she might not have . . ."

"Or she _might_," House insisted. "You can treat cancer. You do it all the time."

Sandra sighed. "I _really_ need to go get Daniel. Back in a little while with pizza." She left the house.

Wilson suddenly remembered another point of House's phone conversation. "Thornton is arranging the funeral?" He knew - well, guessed - it was Thornton who had called earlier, but he had assumed Thornton was only trying to play father. He'd mentally wished the other man luck, in fact, thinking he certainly would need it. House had been more likely just then to fillet him than to accept comfort from that quarter.

House tensed up and passed Rachel off to Cuddy. "I need to go call Jensen," he said. "Promised him the autopsy results ASAP." Thornton was still far from every-day conversation material, not with Wilson nor anybody else, and House simply couldn't handle questions on him today. Wilson suppressed his sigh. He knew more about Thornton than he had a few months ago, but he still wished House would open up to him faster. The more he found out, the more curious he was about the rest of it.

House stood up stiffly, and both girls immediately came alert, watching him with wide eyes. "I'm just going into the bedroom to make a phone call," he told them. "I'll be right there, and I'll come back in a few minutes." They accepted it, but their eyes still followed him to the hall. Belle trotted along after him. They all heard the door shut.

"Thornton is doing the funeral?" Wilson repeated softly.

Cuddy glared at him. "Yes. Period. Don't ask him questions about him on top of everything else right now. Besides that, little ears are listening." As she looked down at Rachel and Abby in her lap, the delayed echo of her childhood hit her. Her mother used to say that in front of her father at times to stop a topic when Cuddy was young.

Her parents. Abruptly, she was seized by concern over _their_ health. She needed to call them, to ask leading questions. They had been here just a week ago for a visit and had both seemed fine other than her father's arthritis, but she ought to make sure. When had their last physicals been? Maybe she ought to have somebody at PPTH review labs and notes. Her first choice would be House, trusted beyond all other doctors, though he needed to get through the immediate several days first. She couldn't dump that on him now. Her parents joined the list of people to notify, but she wanted to talk to Patterson before that, first chance she got. She could feel herself stretched almost too far by everything today. She needed to take Jensen's advice and have a few minutes for herself, and she also wanted Patterson's advice on crisis repairs with the girls. Maybe after the pizza.

The girls were still looking back toward the hall now and then, and Cuddy's attention kept drifting that way herself. "He'll get through this," Wilson reassured her. "He's got you all, and he's got Jensen."

Jensen. Cuddy sighed. She hoped they would be able to be enough for House this time.

(H/C)

"So the sessions probably did push her over the edge," House concluded. "Which were my idea."

"_If_ the sessions made the difference, all four of us contributed to that," Jensen countered. "Everybody made mistakes there in retrospect, including her. But the hot tub is the most proximal cause. She seemed fine in between stopping the sessions and then."

"_Seemed_ fine," House threw back at him. "Obviously, she wasn't. Then there's the cancer, too. What kind of a moron is her doctor back in Lexington?" His name would be on the prescription bottle of Norvasc. House had to look for that. He'd call up the man and light into him on all the multiple ways he had failed his patient. No, actually, House wanted to see the full chart, too. He'd make an appointment in Lexington and do the honors in person.

Jensen sighed softly. "How's Dr. Cuddy?" he asked.

"Feeling guilty, of course."

"Keep an eye on her," Jensen advised again. "She'll need you in this." And giving House more motive to stay plugged into his people right now instead of withdrawing couldn't hurt. "What about the girls?"

"We've got a new problem there. Earlier, I left to go see the autopsy, and Lisa . . ."

Jensen interrupted him, horrified. "You went to watch the autopsy?"

"Didn't get to see it. Lisa wouldn't let me." The surge of relief coming out of the phone was almost visible. "But the girls woke up and found us both gone. They panicked. Apparently thought _we_ were dead."

"Not surprising," Jensen said. "They're trying to make sense of things themselves, and even Abby doesn't have anything close to an adult's understanding to bring to the situation."

"Lisa's beating herself up over that, too. She was trying to explain death this morning, and she said it was like going to sleep and not waking up and then that it happened to older people sometimes and they would never see them again. So now they're afraid to go to sleep or to let us leave."

"Make sure she calls Dr. Patterson tonight, okay? She needs to talk herself."

"Yeah." House looked down at Belle, who was watching him unblinkingly. "What about the girls?"

"Reassurance. They need to know you're here and okay, but they should settle down pretty quickly with that. They'll be fine, Dr. House. But for right now, don't ever leave unexpectedly while they're asleep again. Tell them where you are and when you'll return."

House squirmed on the bed, suddenly thinking of the funeral. That wouldn't be for a few days, though. Kids bounced back, like Jensen said. That reminded him of something else the psychiatrist didn't know. "Thornton called."

"He _called_?" Jensen knew that he never had.

"Yes. He offered to set up the funeral. He said they had a conversation once, and he knows what she wants." Guilt pressed in again that House himself hadn't, and his tone was annoyed as he went on. "What the hell is he trying to do?"

"He's trying to help, Dr. House."

"But _why_? What does he get out of it?"

"Nothing. He's just trying to help. He doesn't have an ulterior motive."

"Bull. He's after something."

"Are you going to take him up on the offer?"

House sighed. "Might as well. It's either him or Lisa, and she's having a hard enough time. I'd just wimp out myself." Just a coward, as John had always told him. A coward who had, in the end, failed to protect her. Jensen heard the thought but didn't counter it. House wasn't ready to hear.

There was a knock on the bedroom door right then. "Greg? Pizza's here, and the girls want to share it." Cuddy sounded too bright, trying to hide the worry.

"In a minute," he called. "Got to go. Sandra brought pizza." He had never felt less hungry in his life.

"One thing, Dr. House." Jensen paused to collect House's full attention. "Take the dose on the sleeping pill all the way back up tonight."

House's jaw tightened up. "I don't . . ."

"You won't just be punishing yourself," Jensen told him. "You would be punishing Dr. Cuddy, as well, and she doesn't need that added."

There was a moment's stubborn silence. "I have to go," House repeated.

Jensen left the topic. Hopefully House would consider it. "Goodbye, then. For now. Stay in touch, Dr. House, with me and with everybody else."

"I _am_," House snapped. "Unless I'm imagining this whole conversation. Maybe it's a shared hallucination; are you hearing voices, too?" Jensen didn't reply. House's voice was softer when he spoke again. "Talk to you later." He hit off and looked at Belle. "Pizza," he announced. She knew the word, but she was still watching him closely as they left the bedroom and didn't scamper on ahead.


	15. Chapter 15

Cuddy groped blindly for a few Kleenex from the box on her nightstand and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry." She forced the words out.

"It's all right," Patterson reassured her. "I'm not in any hurry. Just take your time."

Cuddy gradually got control over the sobs that were shaking her. She had retreated to the bedroom for this phone call at House's suggestion. The others were watching a post-pizza movie with the girls obviously bound and determined not to go to sleep tonight, but with Wilson and Sandra both here to keep an eye on them and House, Cuddy felt safe taking a few brief minutes. But she had barely launched into a recap of the day before she totally broke down. Belle, who had followed her to the bedroom, bumped against her hand and gave a concerned trill. Slowly the storm retreated, at least for the moment, and she felt a little better. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Patterson repeated. "Sometimes we show more strength in letting ourselves cry. Holding back until you break isn't a wiser choice."

Cuddy blew her nose and put the damp Kleenex aside. "I'm okay now. I think."

"You have the right not to be okay," Patterson reminded her. It was a concept they had been working on. "Right now, why don't you start over at the beginning and just tell me what's been happening?"

So she took it again from the top, that last session, Blythe's death, House's reaction, the scene in front of the ME's office, and the girls. She made it through this time without dissolving into tears, at least.

"Good job," Patterson said once she had finished. "Sounds like you did your best with a horrible day."

"But I screwed up everything with the girls," Cuddy protested. "They're terrified now."

"That's actually the easiest one to fix out of all this. They'll be fine, Dr. Cuddy."

"I shouldn't have explained death like that."

"No, you shouldn't have. That was a mistake. Actually, it's about half a mistake; the idea that her body stopped working and that she isn't in it anymore was good. The other two illustrations could have been phrased better, but no permanent damage has been done. They'll get over it quickly. You also made an honest effort to answer their questions, and attempting that was good, too. You did as much right there as you did wrong."

Cuddy sighed. "Glad you think so, but they obviously aren't seeing it that way."

"They're toddlers. On the other hand, that also makes them very pliable and makes mistakes easier to fix. You haven't scarred them for life."

"So what should I do?"

"With them, just start over. Tell them that you said it wrong, that it's totally different from sleep, and that it doesn't happen all the time whenever somebody walks out the door. The body stopping working was a good one. Don't use any comparison that they might partially experience themselves, such as sleep or saying it's like getting sick and not getting well. As they get older, their understanding of it will advance, but for now, just reassurance. Tell them you explained it badly. They'll be comforted by that, and the fear will wear off pretty quickly. Of course, you shouldn't catch them by surprise again by both leaving when they weren't expecting it. For the moment, always tell them where you are, where you're going, when you'll be back. But really, this will be behind them before you know it."

"Just that easy," Cuddy said skeptically.

"_Yes_. In this case, yes. Don't create imaginary difficulties; you've got enough real ones here. The girls will accept that you explained it badly, and they will be reassured. Of course, they'll still be watching you for several days, but it will get better." Cuddy was silent, wondering if it really could be that easy. "_Everybody_ makes mistakes with their kids, Dr. Cuddy, and this isn't a major one. Actually, it's an opportunity."

That got Cuddy's attention. "An opportunity?"

"Yes. Aside from loving them and each other, one of the most positive things parents can do for their children is to own their mistakes. As your girls grow older, they will learn that you aren't perfect. You'll never be able to hide that from them. But they will always be watching, and how they see you deal with a mistake will become their own example for theirs. If they see you just admit it when you do something less than perfectly and go on from there, that sends them a very clear message that their own mistakes aren't a tragedy, that this happens to everybody, and they can fix them and go on. If they see you try to hide your mistakes, never admit them, cover them up, and act like it's shameful to make them, they will get an equally clear message that their mistakes are shameful and should be buried and not acknowledged until they are forced to."

Cuddy was silent. Patterson continued after a moment. "If you want them to talk to you when they are older, when they are teenagers, you need to talk to them. Now is the easy time to get in the habit, because right now, they will accept your explanations automatically. As they grow, they will start to question things more, but they will always be watching how you handle things. If they grow up surrounded with love, they will always have that framework, that foundation, to remember even when they ask questions. If they grow up surrounded by the idea that we're all human and mistakes are okay, they will always have that framework in their minds even when they make their own, even when they struggle with a large one. Being approachable and honest as a parent is far better than trying to appear infallible."

Cuddy thought about it. "That almost makes sense," she said, but her tone was still dubious.

"The problem here is that you were raised by parents who tried to hide their mistakes from you and your sister when you were growing up. So you don't think you should make mistakes, that it's something to be ashamed of and is a personal failure. Don't forward that burden onto your girls, Dr. Cuddy. Just talk to them. You explained it badly. It really is that easy at their age."

"I'll try," she said finally.

"Well done. Even old patterns can be broken; it's just harder than growing up with the right examples in the first place."

"What about Greg?"

It was Patterson's turn to sigh. "That one is going to be a lot harder."

"He's blaming himself for everything. Plus there's John's old threat; technically that was about revealing the abuse, and _John_ would kill her. But I think he'll figure that this still counts, that he let her down."

"Just be there, Dr. Cuddy. I'm very impressed with how you handled that scene this afternoon. Stay with him, watch him, let him know you're there, that he isn't alone anymore. It actually sounds like he _is_ being at least functional through today. He hasn't totally locked up on you. That's good."

"He's going to make himself go to the funeral, just to punish himself for this."

"You won't be able to stop him. But go with him, be there every step of the way. You will remind him what he has now. He'll get through this, I think, but it will be a lot harder and longer road than with the girls."

"At least he's got Jensen, too, but Jensen is shaken up by this himself."

"Yes. He's just human, Dr. Cuddy, like the rest of us. I think he'll be able to deal with this and help Dr. House, too, maybe not as a psychiatrist, at least not in these first few days, but as a friend. They could even help each other, since they're both feeling guilt over it. So are you."

Cuddy looked down at the cat. "I can't help wondering about that last session. I was _livid_ with Blythe, and I really let her have it. I wonder if later, when she started feeling ill, that was why she didn't want to come disturb us. Maybe she was afraid I'd snap at her again."

"Don't put that on yourself. There is _no_ way we will ever know what was going through her mind right then, but from your descriptions through her life, it was perfectly in character for her to ignore warning signs and think they weren't anything serious. Can't you see her doing the same thing even if you had had a perfect family day together and no sessions at all?"

"Yes," Cuddy admitted. "But Greg. . . I probably ought to get back out there and make sure everything's okay."

"Don't you think the others would have called you if the living room were on fire or some other immediate need for action?"

She almost smiled at the image. "I suppose. Still, he'll be wondering."

"He knows we're talking, and he knows you are taking this hard. Let yourself be human, Dr. Cuddy, even with him. Again, the example might even be helpful. He's going to have a lot to get through. Don't pretend you aren't shaken up, too. By taking care of yourself, you give him permission to be having a hard time with it."

"I really do need to go."

"All right. Don't try to be Superwoman, though. Let yourself take time when you need it, and let yourself cry. I'm here whenever you need to talk."

"Thank you." Cuddy couldn't resist one final question. "Do you think he'll be all right?"

There was a pause for thought, which was comforting itself in a way. Patterson wasn't just spouting some empty reassurance. "Eventually," she said. "But it will be difficult. I'm sorry for your loss, Dr. Cuddy."

"It's his loss," Cuddy countered.

"Yours, too. Not as closely as his, but she was his mother, and as such, she gave you a priceless gift. Without her, you wouldn't have her son. Give yourself permission to mourn for her however you need to, anger, guilt, sympathy, whatever. But don't tell yourself this is only about him. Take care of yourself, Dr. Cuddy. Goodbye for now."

"Goodbye." Cuddy hung up and looked at the cat. "Are we going to be all right, Belle?" The white cat bumped her hand and gave a short purr. Cuddy's smile was weak, but it was there. "Thanks. I feel so much better for your vote."

Still, as she threw away the damp tissues and headed for the door, she did feel a little better.


	16. Chapter 16

"So I just said it wrong," Cuddy explained. "It's not like sleep. Something totally different. And it doesn't happen all the time. Whenever we leave, we're just going to work or such, like we always have, and we'll be back, just like all those other times." And God forbid that one of them get hit by a car or something, but she wasn't about to give the girls any more to worry about.

"Not going to die?" Rachel asked.

"No, Rachel." House raised an eyebrow at her, and she could almost hear the sarcastic thought, even in today's turmoil. She ignored him. "We're fine."

Abby crawled up tighter onto House's lap. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he reassured her. "We're both fine."

The girls settled in against them as if Velcroed. They did seem reassured, but they weren't loosening their grips yet, either.

Daniel had long since lost the battle the girls were still fighting, and he was sound asleep in Sandra's arms. Wilson looked at him, then at the girls and the clock, and House saw the thought. "Take your sprog and go on home, both of you. If you keep hanging around, we'll have to start charging rent."

"We can stay the night," Wilson offered. "Or Sandra could take Daniel home, and I could stay in the guest room . . ." He trailed off, not wanting to remind them of what had happened in one of the guest rooms.

"Go home," House repeated. "Besides, you need a good night's sleep tonight before going to work. First thing tomorrow, you can check out those samples from the ME and figure out what we're dealing with here and how it would have been treated."

Wilson sighed softly. He had a full day of patients tomorrow, too, the more full because of rescheduling today, but even more, he was still worried about his friend, and he wasn't entirely sure that launching into a hypothetical course for treating Blythe posthumously was the best approach.

House heard the concern and, of course, resented it. He stiffly stood up, Abby still attached, and started to limp around the room. "It's _relevant_, Wilson. This is family history here."

Cuddy abruptly jumped as a new thought hit her. "Oh, God. You need to get checked out in case . . ."

House rolled his eyes. "Lisa, I had the most thorough physical of my life including a full body scan earlier this year, thanks to Patrick. We _know_ I don't have cancer, and my heart is fine, too."

"What's cancer?" Rachel asked, eyelids drooping.

House jolted to a stop, wishing he had two good legs so he could kick himself. Damn it. The girls were too young to be exposed to all they had been today. Wilson helpfully tried to explain. "It's a very bad thing that none of us have, so you don't have to worry about it. When I'm at work, I fix people with it." Sometimes.

Rachel accepted that with a yawn. House abandoned his living room orbit; he was not only annoying his leg but making all of them aware of his annoyed leg, even the girls. He sat back down on the couch. "Go home, Wilson," he said again.

Sandra silently passed the decision to Cuddy. After a moment, she nodded. "We'll call you if we need you. Thanks so much for today. Good night."

"Good night." Sandra handed Daniel off to Wilson and stood up. Her eyes rested briefly on House, but the trite words he was cringing in anticipation of never came. Instead, her sympathy showed itself in how she quietly, without further comment, left, as if it had been a routine social visit.

Once the door had closed behind them, Cuddy looked down at the girls. "It's almost bedtime," she suggested. It was actually quite a bit past it.

Both girls came to life as if injected with IV caffeine. "NO!" Rachel protested, and Abby, unusually for her, was a barely delayed echo.

Cuddy looked guilty. House spoke up. "The sooner we all go to bed, the sooner tomorrow gets here. Tomorrow, we can watch another movie, maybe play in the snow some." He might slip away at some point to go check on those samples himself at the hospital, but he knew that Cuddy wouldn't let either of them actually go to work. He wasn't sure he wanted to be at the hospital long anyway. Too much unspoken sympathy would be there, and the spoken would be even worse. He felt the anger kicking up again. Why hadn't he noticed something? And why hadn't she said something, at least last night at the end when she had to be aware of problems?

Cuddy tried to pick up his idea and run with it. "He's right, girls. We all need to go to bed now, and tomorrow, we'll do some things together."

An idea suddenly occurred to Abby. "Your bed?"

"You want to sleep in our bed tonight?" Both girls nodded vigorously. Cuddy sighed and looked toward House. One of his nightmares would hardly reassure them, and she was under no illusions what tonight would be like unless she could talk him into knocking himself out.

"You've got your new little piano bed, Abby," House countered.

Rachel seconded that motion. "Abby in her bed, _me_ with you."

House gave a faint grin. "That's not fair, Rachel."

"Don't care." She hugged Cuddy more tightly.

House looked down at Abby, firmly attached to him. Cuddy was silent, not pushing. "All right, girls, you can sleep with us. _Both_ of you, though. But it's only for tonight. Okay?"

They immediately agreed. House shifted Abby over and stood up. "So let's _all_ get ready for bed."

Twenty minutes later, the girls were totally out, nestled between them. The lights were still on, and House and Cuddy sat up against the headboard and looked at each other across their daughters. "What did Patterson say about them?" he asked softly.

She recapped the advice, at least the getting over it quickly part, although the philosophy of mistakes pep talk got much shorter handling.

House nodded. "Jensen said pretty much the same, just shorter. No big deal, reassurance, they'll be fine." He reached down, resting one hand on Abby. "Tomorrow. . ."

"I was thinking I should call Marina to tell her we'll be here after all, and she can have another day off if she wants."

"No, she needs to be here. Help push the girls back into routine. We can work on leaving her with them for 5 minutes while we walk around the front yard or such. Slowly reinforce the idea that we aren't going to disappear forever when we leave."

"That's a good idea, Greg." The unspoken postscript suddenly registered. "You weren't thinking about leaving them here while we go to Lexington, were you?"

House stiffened up, drawing a murmur of protest from Belle, who was on his leg. "They don't need to go see that."

"Greg, we _can't_ leave them here for several days without us. Not right now when they're so worried."

"Jensen and Patterson both said they'd get over it quickly."

"With us _being _there. With reassurance. Not with us going off immediately on a several-day trip. You're thinking just because Thornton's going to be there. . ."

He immediately hit retreat. "This _isn't_ about him. They don't need to see something horrible like a funeral as young as they are."

Cuddy stared at him. The denial on Thornton was too sharp, but there was sincerity behind the back half of that statement, too. "Greg, a funeral isn't a horrible thing. They aren't going to be scarred for life by seeing one. Us leaving them right now would bother them a lot more." He was silent, all walls up. She reached across Rachel and Abby to touch his arm. "You know, you don't have to go to the funeral yourself. We could all just stay here."

She could feel him trembling faintly beneath her touch. "I have to go. You can stay with them if you'd rather."

"Oh, no. You're not getting rid of me in this. If you go, I go." She looked at his chiseled features and squeezed his arm. "You don't have to do this to punish yourself, Greg. You didn't do anything wrong."

He suddenly pulled away, reaching for the nightstand drawer where he always put the routine meds while he was asleep (they were either in his pockets or locked up while he was awake). He quickly shook out the evening Vicodin and the sleeping pill, full dose on the sleeping pill, and gulped them down without water, effectively calling time on conversation for tonight. Cuddy recaptured his arm, hoping he would feel the connection. Jensen was right; arguing with him would do no good right now. He wasn't ready to hear yet.

A few minutes of silence passed. His eyes were getting heavy now. He started to slide down from his sitting position, then paused and reached for his cell phone on the nightstand. Turning it on, he pulled up his address book and offered it to her. "That's Thornton's phone number. Somebody needs to tell him that the . . . that Mom has been released by the ME. You'll drive yourself crazy wondering if you couldn't touch base now and then on the arrangements, too." His hand was shaking slightly with tension in spite of the drug pulling him down. He didn't put any limits on conversation for her, but his eyes were pleading.

Cuddy copied the number over into her phone. "Thank you, Greg," she said. She leaned across the girls to kiss him. He slid the rest of the way down and closed his eyes, unable to fight it anymore. She captured his phone where it had dropped from slack fingers and put it on her nightstand, then picked up her own again. She looked at the clock. 9:30, but he was in a different time zone, too. What a long day. Under Belle's watchful gaze, she dialed.

Thornton answered on the second ring, sounding puzzled. "Hello?"

"Thomas? This is Lisa." She kept her voice low, but the girls, emotionally exhausted, were almost as far out as House was.

"Lisa? Is Greg all right?" She heard the quick concern, the worry that something new might have happened since this morning.

"Yes, he's okay. He gave me the number." She looked back over at her husband. "Thank you so much for offering to make arrangements. That means more than you could know."

"I'm glad to do anything that might make it easier." Thornton paused. "Not that this is going to be easy anyway. I know that. Can you talk right now?"

"Within reason," she stated carefully. "He's asleep."

"Don't worry; I'm not trying to take advantage of things for a little fact-finding for myself."

"I know. I'm supposed to tell you, the ME's office has released the body. They know you're handling things. So you can call and set it up to get her flown back. Mercer County; I don't have the number offhand, but I'm sure it's on the internet."

"What killed her?" he asked.

"She had a heart attack, but it also turns out she had cancer, already metastatic. She might not have had much more time anyway."

"Poor Blythe. I wonder if she knew."

"I doubt it. She isn't . . . wasn't that good an actress. She might have been ignoring symptoms, of course, just putting off getting checked out. I can easily see that." Her voice sharpened up suddenly. "Listen, damn it, there are enough unfinished ends here already. If you haven't had a thorough physical yourself lately, go get one. You don't have permission to die yet."

"I'm fine," Thornton assured her. "I just had a complete workup two months ago. I'm not fond of unfinished things, either, and I have no intention of checking out any time soon. I'm going to be flying to Lexington tomorrow morning, and I'll call the ME. Greg said there was a prepaid deal at the same funeral home where John was." He spat out the name like a curse.

"Yes. Be careful about what's on record, though. John probably set it up for her, too, the way _he_ wanted it. He never let her be an individual."

"I'll just go by what I heard her say myself and make it up from there."

"Thank you. It would probably be easier if you called me with details." House was going to be pushed to the limit by going; he didn't want to talk about it. "And if you have any questions, just let me know."

"I did have a few already, actually, and I was wondering how to ask without getting his back up. First, timing. When I was there for the trial, it was very obvious that he ran down physically in the late afternoons. Is that something that always happens, or was it just that slimy defense attorney pushing on him? What's the best time of day to shoot for?"

Cuddy suddenly smiled. How Housian of Thornton to notice that physical pattern and try to apply it forward, though she could also imagine his mental acrobatics trying to come up with an acceptable way to ask his son that. "You're good at details. I don't know why that should surprise me. It was a lot worse than usual at the trial, but yes, in general, by late afternoon, the pain is starting to get to him unless he's wrapped up on a case or something and too focused to notice. He takes a little time getting moving in the mornings, too. I'd say late morning to early afternoon is the best time for this."

"All right. Second, the people. Probably everybody there is going to know the basic background after all the media during the trial. I'm sure Blythe's friends were aware of things. I haven't seen her since John's death, though. Did she ever mention any social groups lately? I was thinking if there were places she always went and groups she always saw once she was a widow, it might help if I went there and notified them, sort of to take the initial reaction and just let them talk. Maybe they'd have less for him at the funeral. Discreetly, of course; I wouldn't share any secrets, but it might help them to get some of it out first. Let them get a bit more used to the idea before he arrives and have more time to think about it and edit their comments."

"That's a wonderful idea. She's mentioned a senior citizen's center, and I think she was in a travel club. Do you know where she lived?"

"Yes, the house they retired to. I've visited a few times over the years. Assuming she didn't move after John's death, that is."

"No, it's the same house. Her neighbor, I think her name is Patsy. Talk to her. She can tell you."

"Thank you. And don't worry, I won't overplay it. Listening to people talk while looking perfectly innocent myself was what I did for most of my career in the Marines, so I've had a lot of practice. I won't tell anybody but the funeral director that I'm setting things up. I'm just an old family friend. Some of her friends might even remember me from John's funeral. There was a Patsy there, probably the same one."

Cuddy closed her eyes, almost feeling like she did when handing off a task at work to someone she knew would do a thorough and excellent job at it.

"Is there anything else you think I should know?" Thomas asked. "I'm not asking for details, just traps I might want to avoid."

She considered it. "No eulogy from him. That's too much. And I know people like to put on those funeral meals afterward, but I'd avoid that, too. He isn't going to feel like sitting down with thirty people and eating after the service. I can't think of anything else at the moment, but if I do, I'll call you."

"How is he taking it?" Thornton asked.

She looked at House. "He's . . . I'm not sure I should tell you that."

"Don't, then. You said back at Christmas that there were things going on besides just a visit even before this complicated everything. I don't need to know what they are. I'm just concerned."

"I know."

"And how are _you_ doing?"

Tears abruptly welled up again, and she fought them back. She couldn't break down again. Even if House was totally out, she might wake the girls up. "I'm . . . dealing with things."

There was a skeptical silence, and she could almost picture the quirked eyebrow, but he didn't push. "Do you have friends up there who are helping you?"

"Yes. Yes, we do. I'd better let you go, but you can call me. It's all right."

"I will." He paused. "I'm sorry, Lisa."

She cleared her throat. "I am, too. By the way, don't use those words to him."

"I won't. I did hear all the testimony at the trial. Goodbye, Lisa."

"Bye, Thomas. And thanks again."

A click, and he was gone. Cuddy slowly pushed the end button, then pulled the number back up in her address book and looked at it for a long moment. Maybe this crisis could also be an opportunity, to quote Patterson. But they had a long and treacherous road ahead, even so. She leaned across her family, kissing each sleeping girl in turn and then her husband. Finally, she turned out the lamp and lay down herself. Sleep wasn't as long as she had feared in coming.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Sorry for the delay; work and computers have complicated this week extensively with yet another programming "upgrade," and there hasn't been time for much else. Hopefully you'll get another chapter this weekend - Thornton up next, and I always enjoy writing him - but then I'm traveling for a day or two Sunday through very late Monday and will be offline then. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

House opened his eyes slowly. His first thought on seeing the girls and Cuddy was disappointment that yesterday wasn't just a bad dream; his second was disgust at himself for wishing it were. He knew perfectly well how unfair life could be, and that wasn't apt to change by magical thinking. What he'd done couldn't be denied, only ultimately either avoided or faced. He'd spent nearly three years by now working on facing things with Jensen, but he wasn't sure he could deal with this one.

Cuddy was awake and watching him, both girls still sound asleep. "All quiet last night?" he asked.

She nodded, but her eyes were worried. "They woke up twice. We watched you breathing for a while. Each time they woke up seemed better, though, and they didn't have trouble getting back to sleep. No bad dreams."

"Good." He sensed the subject coming and cut it off at the pass. "Let's not mention anything about the funeral today to them - or to Marina, either. We'll just spend all day following Jensen and Patterson's advice and see how they settle down."

"It's not going to work, Greg. Not in a day or two."

"We'll see," he insisted. Part of him knew she was right, but there was not only Thornton but the funeral waiting in Lexington. He couldn't take them there to see that. "Give it today, Lisa. We'll decide tomorrow."

She looked dubious, but she backed off, granting him a little space - for the moment. She leaned over the girls and kissed him. Belle shifted and gave a mewed complaint, and Abby snapped awake suddenly. House felt a tightness in his chest at the way she looked around quickly for her parents, but she immediately settled back as she saw them. "Morning!" she said.

House reached over, intending to tickle her, but he wound up pulling her tightly to him instead. "Good morning, Abby. Good morning, Rachel." Rachel was stirring by the time he released her sister. She, too, looked quickly for them, then relaxed.

"Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Daddy. Good morning, Belle." She hesitated. "Good morning, Abby."

Cuddy smiled. "Good morning, girls. What do we want for breakfast this morning?"

"Pancakes," Rachel requested. House flinched at the reminder of yesterday, as did Cuddy, but she answered promptly.

"Okay, girls. Mine aren't as good as Wilson's, but we'll have pancakes." She sat up on the edge of the bed and lifted them down one by one with a kiss on the way. "Let's go to the bathroom first, though. See you in a few minutes, Greg."

Left alone, House lay in bed for a moment thinking until Belle walked up his chest and stared at him pointedly. His head quickly started to ache under the golden glare. "All right," he grumbled. "You could just go on with them if you're hungry." He started range of motion exercises on his leg preparatory to getting up, and the white cat moved over to the middle of the bed, still watching him.

(H/C)

He entered the room where she had died. It looked perfect, innocent, the bed made and bedspread pulled up as if it were any routine, impersonal room, but his hand was trembling on the knob as he shut the door. The rest of the world was on the other side for the moment, leaving him in here with the memory of finding her body. He had to locate that medicine bottle and call her doctor for an appointment. Cuddy had offered to do it for him and then to do it with him, and he had finally snapped at her that he didn't need a babysitter. He felt worse when she didn't even get annoyed at his comment, just absorbed it with silent understanding in her eyes. He knew his current solitude would be very limited, though. He refused to admit that deep down, he was glad of that.

Finding the prescription would take more than just one step inside the room, though. He made himself release the knob, leaning only on his cane, and stepped forward on shaky legs. One more stride into the room, the delayed conclusion hit, and he gladly traded memories for anger and was steadied by it. The bed was perfectly made. Blythe's suitcase, which had been open on top of the chest in the corner nearest the bed with the clothes she'd most recently taken off thrown haphazardly into it, was missing, and the purse was no longer beside it, either. This room had Wilson written all over it.

He snatched out his cell phone and punched the number viciously, cutting off the oncologist's answer halfway. "Wilson, what the hell did you do in the guest room?"

"I just straightened things up a little. I thought you might not want to see . . ."

"You could have _asked _me that. Or even told me yourself later instead of letting me find it."

Wilson sounded guilty. "I meant to mention it, House, but then the girls flipped out. I forgot it in all that. How are they doing?"

"They're a lot better, and don't change the subject. Where's the suitcase? Her purse is gone, too."

"I closed the suitcase up and put it in the closet. Are you . . ." House hung up on him, turning toward the closet. There they were, side by side, and he pulled them out. The suitcase seemed impossibly heavier than it had at the airport last Friday, even with her own gifts to them removed now, and he looked at it, then at the chest and the bed. His leg tightened up in advance at the thought. He would try the purse first.

At that moment, scratching sounded on the door. "Quit it," he growled, but the door opened behind him, then promptly shut again once the cat was through. Belle jumped onto the bed and sat at attention. House slowly put the purse down next to her. He didn't sit on the bed himself, but his fingers hesitated, frozen in mid reach for the zipper. Opening his mother's purse seemed such a violation somehow. _She's dead_, he reminded himself. _She isn't going to care_. Still, it was a long minute before he could make himself open it.

He turned the purse upside down, spilling the contents onto the bed. A billfold, a hairbrush, a spiral-bound address book, Blythe's own cell phone, several other pieces of miscellany. No pill bottle.

He picked up the address book and flipped through it, startled at how many contacts there were. This one wasn't more than a few years old, probably bought shortly after John's funeral, he decided. If it didn't postdate his funeral, it definitely had hit a growth spurt after that. John wouldn't have approved of this many contacts. There were lots of people in Lexington, apparently friends, most filed confusingly by first names. He himself was under G. Thornton appeared in T, not that it mattered with him. House turned back to D and found no less than three listings for Doctor. One of them was her psychiatrist, the other two mysteries. If he didn't find the Norvasc in the suitcase to narrow it down, he'd try both numbers to get her primary, going for the one with the newer pen first. He patted through the purse, making sure he hadn't missed a compartment, but he found only keys in a side zipper. Nothing else.

Back to the suitcase. He hauled it across the room, then braced himself and swung it up to the top of the chest with a defiant heave that produced a grunt of protest. Belle left her sniff search of the purse and jumped over to the suitcase, concerned, and he pushed her aside and opened it. In the very front corner, propped up by folded clothes but visible once you looked closely, were three bottles. He pulled them out in turn. Norvasc. Ibuprofen. Pepto-Bismol. His hand shook on the last, and the anger flared up again. Damn it, _why_ hadn't she said something? Didn't she know how dangerously deceptive GI symptoms could be? You didn't just keep pouring down Pepto when pain continued. On the other hand, she wasn't a doctor. _He_ was the doctor. He should have noticed, should have questioned her. When was the last time he had asked about her health, anyway?

Of course, her _own_ doctor should have gone over all of that. The name on the Norvasc bottle matched up with one of the two mystery doctors in Blythe's address book. House pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

"Good morning, doctors' office." The receptionist sounded entirely too bright and cheerful.

"This is Dr. Gregory House, Blythe House's son. She is - was a patient of yours." House could feel his breathing picking up a little. His stomach was starting to hurt. "I want to talk to Dr. Nichols."

The receptionist caught the change of tense. "She _was_ . . . did something happen to her?"

"Yes, damn it, something happened to her. No thanks to your incompetent staff, she had a heart attack Tuesday night and died." His legs suddenly felt wobbly at the final word, and he sat down on the bed. Belle climbed into his lap.

"I am so sorry to hear that, Dr. House. But Dr. Nichols isn't in the office today; he's on vacation."

"Glad _he's _enjoying Christmas with his family anyway. When is he due back? When did he see her last?"

She dodged. "I'm going to have our office manager call you back right away, Dr. House. It will only be a minute, and you can talk to her."

"Just transfer me, damn it."

"I'm sorry," she said again, like fingernails on a blackboard, "but we need to verify your identity before discussing any aspects of her care. We will call you back promptly on the emergency contact number in her file."

Logically, he couldn't argue with that, even though he wanted to. "Fine. Verify away." He hung up and waited.

It was indeed only about a minute before his cell phone rang. "Dr. House, this is Teresa Carruthers, the office manager. You have my deepest sympathy."

"Yeah, yeah, skip the sympathetic crap. When does Dr. Nichols return?"

"Not until next week, Dr. House. His first day back is Wednesday, January 4th."

"Fine. I want an appointment with him on the 4th, and I will want to see her entire file, too."

Her voice was professionally soothing, obviously used to having the difficult bucks passed to her and practiced at being unruffled by them. It pissed him off. "Of course, Dr. House. His morning is quite fully scheduled that day, but he has an opening at 3:00 p.m."

"I'll take it. I want to find out what the hell you all have been doing down there."

Again, she didn't rise to the bait. "I'm sure he'll be glad to go over everything with you."

"Too bad he didn't go over everything with _her_ before. When was her last appointment?"

"He saw her just a few weeks ago, December 5th. According to the note, he did recommend further testing then, but she put it off until January."

House closed his eyes, his anger flipping back to Blythe. He was suddenly aware of his leg hurting, too, in spite of his feline heating pad. "I want to know exactly what he told her that appointment," he insisted.

"You'll have to get that from him, Dr. House. I can tell you from the office note that she was complaining of fatigue and vague abdominal pain, and he recommended a full workup including EKG and abdominal ultrasound, but she wanted to do it after Christmas. I'm sure he'll remember more details." There was a finality in her voice, though a polite one. Her non-MD'd self wasn't going to go into things in greater depth than that with him.

Tiredness pushed in at him, and his tone was abruptly softer as he replied. "All right. I'll be there on the 4th. So that wasn't a complete physical a few weeks ago?"

"No. She hadn't had a full physical in a year and a half and was overdue, but she scheduled that one just as a regular appointment. He did want to add quite a bit of testing and do a full workup promptly, but she refused for now."

He sighed. "Have you ever heard of a Dr. Warren?" It was the other unaccounted-for name in her address book.

"Dr. Henry Warren? He was in private practice as an internist and retired two years ago. We took over several of his patients, including her."

"So you have her full records from that practice, too?"

"Yes, we do."

He looked at the bottle of Norvasc still in his hand, then at the Pepto-Bismol on the chest. "I want a copy of the full record. Have that already made on the 4th when I get there."

"No problem, Dr. House. Of course, we will need to see your ID before handing them over."

"I understand." Privacy laws had teeth in them these days.

"And again, you have my sympathy." This one was avoiding "I'm sorry," he realized. She had picked up on that much at some point from the media about the trial.

"Yeah," he said awkwardly. He hung up. "Damn it, Mom, _why_?" Belle pushed in closer. His whole body was starting to tremble slightly now.

There was a knock on the door. He didn't reply, and it opened after a moment. A brief sound bite swept in of Marina and the girls playing, life trying to crowd out the death, and then the door shut again, sealing it out for the moment. His eyes hadn't left the bottle of Norvasc. He waited for questions, but they never came. Instead, Cuddy just sat down on the bed next to him, and he leaned willingly into her, trembling, steadying himself in her, but still, he didn't cry.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: I'll be traveling the next two days and offline, so I'll take this opportunity to go ahead wish everybody a merry Christmas and hope you all have a wonderful time. And please take a note from Blythe; none of us know how much longer we have. Whether you are with family or friends this holiday, make the most of your time with them. Thanks again for the reviews.

(H/C)

Thomas Thornton landed at Lexington at 9:30 Thursday morning. It was roughly the same temperature at St. Louis today, somewhat chilly but clear. He rented a car and then left the airport, unable to resist a longing look at the racetrack just across the street as he turned onto the road. He had seen it from the plane, too, the giant oval just waiting for hoofprints. Wrong season for racing, of course, but he couldn't help noticing anything to do with horses. His father, and then Emily, had always joked that he had radar.

He drove to the hotel where he had a reservation, checked in, and then headed for Blythe's house, carefully timing it to arrive about 11:15, a time when any retirees thinking about going out for lunch might be starting to get ready and even looking out the windows as they considered locations. He had an appointment with the funeral director at 2:30, but meanwhile, he planned to start meeting the neighbors.

Blythe's house was much smaller than his own. Of course, she and John had retired here as an older couple, while he and Emily had had a teenager and very active family when they selected theirs. Only one level, but this house was snug and attractive in a quiet neighborhood. Thomas parked in the end of the driveway and got out, letting the door shut loudly. He walked halfway up the drive and stood on the edge of the concrete looking at the flower beds with a sad droop to his shoulders. It wasn't entirely manufactured; he had visited the house a few times before, back before John's death, and there had only been one simple bed then beside the front walk, looking like a page from a manual that said, "A proper house should have a flower bed," and then checked that box off on the list.

Now, the landscaping was expanded, the beds far more extensive and running the full length of the house other than the door. It looked like someone's pride and joy now, which it never had previously. All the flower beds were carefully mulched under for the winter, and he recognized azaleas. Two evergreen rhododendrons framed the stretch along the front walk. Each young shrub in the yard had its feet warmly tucked in, too. Picturing Blythe working out here, lovingly tending her plants, expanding the landscaping as her cramped soul slowly unfolded to the sun, was the moment that the fact suddenly hit Thomas for itself, not just for the impact on Greg. Blythe was gone. She would never see the blooms this next spring, although they would come anyway. Life went on, but Thomas took a moment of personal silence here in memory of Blythe. She had had plenty of faults, but she also had truly loved her son to the best of her ability, and she had been stifled by John. Seeing the difference in the house since his death was poignant.

The door of the house to the left opened, and a woman roughly Blythe's age came out, walking across the yard. Ah, good, here came someone to introduce herself. The old lessons of his service were still alive under the blanket of years, and he had been thinking the last day about how best to proceed. It was always better to let others initiate contact if possible to arrange that. They were less suspicious that way. He recognized this woman from the funeral; hopefully this was Patsy, the neighbor Lisa had mentioned.

"Were you looking for Blythe?" she asked, coming up to him. "She's out of town for Christmas." An open, friendly face atop a helpful soul.

Thomas kept the slight sad droop in his shoulders. "No, I was just looking at her flowers and thinking and remembering. You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?" Curiosity was spiked with concern.

"I'm in Lexington for a few days and had planned to come over to her house, but when I called her son yesterday, he gave me the news."

"Greg? What news?" She caught her breath. "You mean. . ."

He nodded somberly. "I'm afraid Blythe had a heart attack Tuesday night and died."

She gasped. "But she was so _happy_ now. She'd been looking forward to that trip, talking about Greg and her granddaughters. Oh, poor Blythe. Of course, she'd had that bad car accident a few years ago, but she never mentioned health problems aside from that. She seemed _fine_. I can't believe it. She was . . ."

He heard the thought and completed it. "She was our age."

She shivered as if Death itself had dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Poor Blythe. And poor Greg. What a horrible thing to happen, and right at Christmas, too. Is he all right?"

"He was very shocked when I talked to him. Who wouldn't be?"

"Of course. Oh, my, this is awful. She was so happy lately." She looked back at the flower beds herself.

Thomas held out a hand. "I'm Thomas Thornton," he prompted.

She responded automatically, her mind still on Blythe. "Patsy Wilkerson. I can't believe it." She paused suddenly and studied Thomas closely for the first time. "I think I've met you," she said tentatively.

He nodded. "I was at John's funeral." His hair had still had some color then. He knew he looked more than three years older now.

She flinched at the mention of John. "That _man_. Did you hear the news this last summer?"

"Yes, I did. Shocking, and everybody just missed it." His own guilt pushed in, and he stuffed it back down. _Focus, Thomas. _

"Well, I must admit, he never quite seemed right to me. Not that I suspected anything like _that_ of course, but sometimes you just get a feeling about people, and I'd had one for years. He liked acting like a big shot retired Marine, made sure to wear his uniform on the fourth and such, but he never really was interested in doing things with people. After he died, Blythe changed." She looked at the flower beds again. "I can't believe she's gone. Poor Greg. When is the funeral?"

"Arrangements hadn't been made yet. When I talked to him yesterday morning, I think they had just taken the body away."

"Of course, it will take a little time. So unexpected, too. Do you have any idea if services will be here?"

"Probably they will be here, since she lived here so long. I thought I'd watch the paper for an obituary; it will have all the details. I don't want to pester Greg about it."

She sighed. "Yes, that's a good idea. I always read the obituaries anyway these days. Poor Blythe. I'm glad services will be here, though. She had a lot of friends, and they'll want to come. She really came out of a shell after John died. She had always been a nice, pleasant neighbor, but she never really got into things until then. Had you known her long?"

"Over 50 years," Thomas replied. "I went through boot camp with John, and then we were stationed together once. I visited them every year or two after that. So Blythe had a lot of friends here? I'm glad of that. She always seemed to like Lexington."

"Yes, she was in our travel club and a flower club, and she almost always ate lunch at the senior citizen's center. Actually, I was just getting ready to head there myself when I noticed you." She sighed again, feeling the weight of news plus the need to share it. "Probably none of them know yet."

"I guess it is heading toward lunch time," Thomas said, looking at his watch.

"They start serving at 12:00." Right on cue, the planted thought occurred to her. "Did you have any plans for lunch? Maybe you could come, too. I'm sure everyone would be glad to meet another old friend of Blythe's."

"Does the center mind guests?"

"No, not at all, as long as you're a senior."

He gave his disarming smile. "Well, I certainly ought to qualify on that account." He looked at the flower beds again himself. "Hard to think that she'll never see them bloom this next year."

"I know. She loved those flowers. Hold on a few minutes, and I'll be ready. You can follow me to the center."

"Thank you." She walked briskly back across to her own door, still quite spry for her age. He stood watching the flowers and thinking. The house. Presumably it was Greg's now, but they were happy in Princeton, and Greg would never want the house John had bought and lived in for years. It would have to be cleared out and sold, and Thomas would offer to help with that, though not immediately while setting up funeral arrangements. Give it a while; probate took months, anyway, even assuming she had a will and longer without one. But it suddenly occurred to him that the piano was in there, the piano he had bought all those years ago, the one where Greg had discovered music. It had always been there on all of his visits. He wondered if he had any chance at all of getting that himself. Greg no doubt had a far better one now, and even though he couldn't play, Thomas would appreciate the memento, possibly the one thing he had managed to do right in Greg's childhood. It was a piece of his son, a uniquely unbroken one. When the time was right, he would ask.

Patsy emerged and waved to him before backing out of her driveway, and he followed her through the city. She was a hypercautious driver, always looking multiple times each way, stopping for all yellow lights, and obsessively checking the rearview mirror to make sure she hadn't lost him. He stayed right behind her. It was a short drive to the center, and she pulled in, carefully picking a parking spot with an open one next to it. Several cars were already there, a few people walking toward the doors, and they paused at the sight of him. A close-knit pack this was, though a friendly one.

"This is Thomas Thornton," Patsy said. "He's an old friend of Blythe's, and he has some horrible news."

"What horrible news?" asked one man.

"She died on Tuesday night of a heart attack," Thomas replied. They were still on the doorstep. He knew the news would take off ricocheting through the entire center as soon as they were inside.

One of the women gasped. "Oh, poor Blythe. But she wasn't having any heart problems. Not that she mentioned anyway, and we all talk about our doctor visits."

"So you're a friend of hers?"

"I've known her over 50 years," Thomas said. He took a short step toward the door, silently suggesting that they move on in, and the shocked knot of people slowly untangled long enough to pass through the doorway. Then, as he'd expected, several of them took off to different clusters to share the news with those already at the long tables. A few stayed behind to hear more from him.

Patsy ignored the spider web of communication and simply clapped her hands together. "Listen up, everybody. This is Thomas Thornton, an old friend of Blythe's, and he found out yesterday that Blythe died of a heart attack Tuesday night!"

The reaction fired off in all directions, the room a beehive of conversation. Patsy steered Thomas to a table, and he sat down between her and another woman. "Mark, you're the reverend," she said to the man across the table, who looked more like he was heading off for a day of golf than to church. "Don't you think we ought to say a prayer or something?"

He stood up, and the room fairly quickly came to attention, circles of silence sweeping out from him like a tossed rock into water. "Shhh." "Quiet!" "He's going to say something." Obviously, he was somewhat a spokesman routinely for the group. He made a few comments about Blythe and her contribution to the senior community, followed by a brief prayer, and then sat back down, and conversation resumed, though more quietly now.

"I'm Mark Hansen," he said across the table to Thomas. "Glad to meet you. I knew Blythe well."

"Did she go to your church?" Thomas asked. He honestly had no idea what Blythe's specific beliefs were, didn't think she was a very devout follower of anything, although she had mentioned God a few times in passing. He definitely needed to find that out. Nobody better to ask than a preacher who knew her.

"Sometimes. She certainly wasn't the most faithful attendee, but she's come occasionally for years on special days like Christmas and Easter. It was more often than that after her husband died." There was a slight twist of the lips at "her husband." This man knew. "I hope she found some comfort there dealing with things. Technically, though, it's not my church anymore. I'm retired."

"Aren't we all?" the woman next to Thomas said. "What did you do, Thomas?"

"I was in the Marines - that's where I met John and Blythe - and then I had a desk job after that for about twenty years."

"John." The woman shook her head. "I cannot _believe_ everything about John that was in all the news. How could anybody do things like that? And their poor son. He never came to visit them; I guess I know why now."

"Blythe was so proud of Greg," Mark Hansen put in. "Always passing around pictures of him once she joined the group. Pictures of Abby and Rachel, too."

"Such adorable girls," Patsy agreed. "She had new ones just a few months ago. They were from Abby's birthday."

With a pang, Thomas realized that probably everyone here had seen pictures of his granddaughters, had heard proud tales of them. He had never even seen a picture yet himself. They were called to the buffet at that point, and by the time his plate was filled and he had sat back down, he had control of himself again. Regrets later privately. He was here on assignment. "So Blythe was in the travel club," he said. "I'm glad she got to branch out some and do things for herself after John's death."

"She was in the flower club, too," said Karen, the woman next to him. "She donated some flowers for a sale we had recently to benefit the cancer hospital. She had the most gorgeous azaleas this year, too. They were good last year, but this year, they were spectacular. I envied her those azaleas. Mine never look like that."

"You put them too much in sunlight," Patsy commented.

"Of course, the azaleas came _after_ John," Karen went on. "Really, I can't imagine what it was like living with a monster like that for 50 years. She never knew, though. She'd say that sometimes, after everybody knew, I mean, with the trial. She never mentioned it before that. Even then, it wasn't much, just saying she was proud of Greg, but she did say several times if someone else brought it up that she'd had no idea. Blythe was sweet, but she wasn't the most _observant_ person around. I think I would have known myself, but she didn't."

"I never did like that man," Patsy reiterated.

"Greg had to be very strong to have survived it," Thomas said. "I'm sure he doesn't like to talk about John, though, and the trial was hard on him. We need to be careful what we say at the funeral."

"Of course," Mark Hansen agreed across the table. "We don't need to talk about those things while he's here." There was a general nodding of heads within earshot. Thomas relaxed a little; the other man would see that the word was passed around, and the group would follow his lead. "When is the funeral, by the way?"

"Not arranged yet the last time I talked to him," Thomas replied. "I guess we'll have to just watch the obituaries."

The meal went on with conversation all around, a good bit of it touching on John, and Thomas was glad Greg didn't have to be here with this group as they adjusted to the news. There were a few questions for him, of course, about his own background, but they also talked about Blythe for herself, and gradually, little details of her recent life came out. She had loved flowers. She was an enthusiastic traveler. She had volunteered for the adopt-a-grandparent project at the nearest school for those kids who didn't have their own, and she had volunteered at the cancer center, too, answering the phone there one morning a week. Everyone had liked her. She had been very proud of Greg and his daughters. Thomas just let them talk, bumping it back to Blythe and John in the rare moments it started to stray, letting them get the reaction out. He did not milk them for details on Rachel and Abby, and none were offered. Obviously, they assumed that any old friend of Blythe's had seen pictures and heard stories himself.

Once the meal was over, Thomas left promptly, saying he was meeting someone, but promised to return tomorrow again for lunch with the group. He went back to his hotel, called the ME's office and an airline (giving his own credit card), and then looked at his watch. No time for a long walk, which was what he felt like. Actually, he felt like a long ride, but that wasn't possible, either.

Several dozen random people were ahead of him as far as information on his own granddaughters, and the sting of that was sharp. Greg's choice to leave the girls home for the funeral didn't bother him; he was far more worried about his son just now. But having the entire senior center passing around so casually multiple pictures of his granddaughters when he hadn't even seen one did. Promising himself a good walk later on, he instead made himself sit down and just breathe, refocusing. Always, he wanted to be doing something either mentally or physically. Waiting was hard. As he'd told Lisa, he really wasn't nearly as patient as he could force himself to be.

Four priceless words from Lisa at Christmas (had that really only been four days ago?). _You are making progress._ He hung onto them, savored them, encouraged himself with them. It had only been six months. Against 50 years of misunderstanding and missed opportunities, that wasn't long at all. But Greg didn't need to worry about him trying to use the current crisis to his own benefit; what his whole being longed for was normal times, simple family moments. Being part of it all.

He missed Emily especially at moments like this. Missed her soothing presence, missed talking to her and getting her wise advice. He had definitely been the more intelligent one, not that she was any slouch, but it was surprising the times that she saw something that he had missed. His perception could be just a little narrow sometimes, especially the more deeply his emotions were involved. He had wished more than ever in the last six months that he had her advice about Greg, and he had even tried to imagine what she might have said and put it into practice. They had discussed Greg often, of course, but never with all the current facts in hand. He pulled the pictures out of his wallet and looked at them again. Emily. Tim. Greg, a wallet-sized reprint of the recent one at the piano, the one picture his son had sent him. He studied his son's strong face, scarred but finally at peace. His granddaughters had a happy family to grow up in, at least. Whenever Thomas finally managed to enter their lives, at least he would only be starting from ground level from their point of view, not several floors down into the subbasement.

Someday. Hopefully someday soon. He was healthy, but he couldn't help being aware of the sands running in the hourglass. He hoped he would have a lot of years with both Greg and the girls. Lisa, too; his son had picked an excellent woman. _You are making progress._

Right now, though, he needed to go plan a funeral. He replaced the pictures in his wallet, stood, and took a few deep breaths, then headed for the door.

The funeral home seemed identical to the others of his life, somber and professional. You even found yourself walking quietly inside them, as if the dead might be disturbed somehow by too much noise. The funeral director himself was equally somber and professional. Also a little curious, but he had the self control to put that quality on the shelf. He obviously had followed the media at the trial.

"So, Mr. Thornton, we had a call from Dr. House. You have full authorization to make arrangements as you choose. She had a funeral service already on file, but as I remember, her husband made both of them."

Thornton sat down at the chair in front of the somber, professional desk. "We were afraid of that. I doubt we'll stick with that version, but just out of curiosity, what did he ask for?" The director slid the printout across the desk, and Thornton skimmed it, feeling his anger rising again. John had specified a eulogy from Greg. In lieu of flowers, people were asked to contribute to a fund for a Marine charity. Minimal music. He even wanted "dutiful wife" printed on the program beneath her name.

"No," Thornton said. He gave himself the satisfaction of ripping the sheet across, though only once, and was grateful all over that Greg didn't have to see that service, not even on paper, much less in person. "Toss that whole service out. John can still foot the bill, though."

A very brief smile cracked the other man's professional mask for a minute, and he suddenly seemed more human and less like a job description. "That won't be a problem." He took out a note pad. "So, what do we want in her service?"

"First of all, no eulogy from Greg. The only thing he should have to do is come. The one time I heard her mention her funeral, she said she would like eulogies, though. I'm thinking maybe from her neighbors, people at the senior center. There's a Mark Hansen there who would be good."

The funeral director, who probably knew every preacher retired or not within a 50-mile radius, nodded. "He does a very good eulogy."

"Patsy Wilkerson, her neighbor. Blythe had a lot of friends after John's death. I'm sure Patsy would be willing, and she could probably suggest a few others. The Marine charity can wait for someone else." A former Marine, he dismissed that without a second thought. "She loved flowers. So let the people give flowers." On they went step by step through the service with the music and all the other details, using the little he knew and filling in the rest, scheduling times. Thomas told him that the body should be flying in tonight, and the man said they would see that it got picked up at the airport. Then Thomas was taken to the casket room and picked one out. That was the hardest part for him, memories of Emily and Tim surging up, but he dutifully stuffed them down for later and selected one with light blue lining, her favorite color. Patsy no doubt had an emergency key to the house and could retrieve a favorite dress; the funeral home should ask when they called her about a eulogy. The director wrote it all down, nodding.

"One final thing," the director said as they returned to his office after selecting the casket. "About the burial. It's a joint site, you know; John House purchased a double plot. Do you want her buried next to him?"

Thomas sat back a little, the impact of that one pushing him into the back of his chair. Oh, boy. Lost in planning of the service itself, that one hadn't occurred to him. The trouble was, Blythe _had_ specifically mentioned at another point during that funeral dinner after John's service that she wanted to be buried next to her husband, that she had always liked the idea of a married couple resting side by side. Of course, that was before she had known the truth about John. Part of him thought that she really belonged next to John; part wanted to free her from that. And what about Greg? For the first and only time in everything, he chickened out. "I'm not comfortable making that decision. Could you excuse me a minute while I make a phone call?" The director discreetly withdrew, closing the office door, and Thomas dialed the new number he'd added into his cell phone last night.

Lisa answered on the second ring, sounding tense. "Hello?"

"Lisa, it's Thomas. I'm arranging the service, and I have one question. John had purchased a double plot; do we want to bury her next to him?"

"Mmph. That's a tough one."

"She actually said she would like that. I don't think she knew the truth yet when she said that, though."

She sighed and reluctantly passed the buck in her turn. "Just a minute. I really think I'd better ask him that." He obviously was in the same room, as she didn't do any more than turn her head. "Greg? There's a double plot. She said once she wanted that, but that was before. Do you want your mother buried next to John or somewhere else totally?"

Silence for a few seconds, and then a soft snarl. "What the hell _difference_ does it make where we bury her? It's all a hole in the ground, and it's not like they're going to be having dates or something down there. I don't care. Let him decide."

"Okay." Thomas heard footsteps as she retreated to a different room. She sighed before speaking again, and then she bravely took the decision herself. "I think it's going to be hard either way, but yes, go ahead and bury her next to John. She . . . she _belongs_ there, really, and you did hear her say that yourself. Give her the service she wanted, but use the burial plot that's already there." Her voice was tight, clipped, hating the decision even as she had to make it. He'd only actually met her once, but he could picture the worry in her face. Still, he was grateful that that bombshell for better or worse would not come back on him. He had enough issues with Greg without adding more.

"Thank you, Lisa."

He heard her weak smile. "You shouldn't have to make _that_ call. You're doing so much already, but that one shouldn't be on you. There isn't an easy answer, though. John would still be there in absentia even if he isn't in fact."

"I'll make the burial private," he said. "Just immediate family, no crowd. That will be easy to set up; they were already separated. The service is on Monday at 10:30 a.m. The burial is that afternoon at 1:30. No procession from the funeral home. I thought a break in between the two might help him, give him a chance to rest a little."

"That's a great idea. Is everything else set?"

"Yes." He didn't go into details, leaving it up to her to ask if she wanted. She didn't, at least not right now.

"Thank you so much for this, Thomas."

"You're welcome. I'll let you go now, but I'll be in touch. Goodbye, Lisa."

"Goodbye, Thomas."

He hung up. The printout of the original service was still on the funeral director's desk in two pieces, and he picked it up and tore it firmly across, now making it four, then deposited it in the wastebasket. He wished the past could be edited and replaced as easily. Then he opened the door. The director was close at hand, though a respectful distance away. "Go ahead and use that site next to John, but the burial is private. We need to specify that in the obituary."

"Of course. We won't even list a time in the obituary, just say private burial at a later date."

They finished up the final details. The obituary would run tomorrow. It was 3:30 when Thomas left the funeral home, and he felt absolutely run over, the memories crowding in. He knew he needed to give them free rein and take a break from this day as time for himself. Back at the hotel room, he started to switch to his tennis shoes to head out for a walk, then paused. First, he picked up the phone and called down to the main desk. This was horse country, after all, and even if winter darkness was coming before too long tonight, he could make a reservation for tomorrow morning. He had needed a new pair of boots anyway. "This is Thomas Thornton in 534. Is there any place around here that I can rent a horse?"

Five minutes and a phone call later, he had an appointment at 9:30 tomorrow morning. Putting on his tennis shoes, he picked up his iPod, cued up his father's recordings, and headed out with his memories for a long walk.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Hello, readers. I hope everyone's Christmas was as enjoyable as mine was, whether you had it with friends or family. Here's the next update, and Jensen returns next chapter. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

House sat in the rocker watching his family.

The girls were slowly settling down as the day wore on, but the looks were still there, those quick visual checks whenever he and Cuddy came out of a room or came back inside from five minutes on the porch. Marina had been talking to them quietly a few times, too. He had no idea what she was saying, but it seemed to be helping. Marina had said nothing verbally to him, though he was cringing waiting for the trite words, but she had been _hovering_ instead whenever she had an opportunity, making one of his favorites for lunch, bringing him coffee just as he liked it. Cuddy had obviously honored his request, and Marina didn't know that she was going to be babysitting for several days in a few. But the pure sympathy in her eyes was almost suffocating.

Here she came again, tiptoeing down the hall and peering around the doorway of the nursery. They had managed to get the girls down for a nap in their own beds but only by promising to be right here in the same room, and even then, sleep was longer than usual coming. House had sat down in the rocking chair, and Cuddy had sat carefully in his lap, her weight across his good leg. Afraid to disturb the girls, they were silent, and by the time Rachel and Abby were finally deeply asleep, Cuddy had drifted off herself, her head drooping over against his shoulder. Marina, now struck with this scene, gave one of those female _isn't that so sweet_ smiles, and House scowled at her. She turned away, still smiling, and tiptoed back down the hall. At least she didn't take a picture.

He looked from his girls to his wife. All of them seemed too tired, sleeping almost desperately now that they had succumbed. Stress lines were visible on Cuddy's face, and he wondered how much sleep she had gotten last night. He shouldn't have knocked himself out, and he would have been able to help more. On the other hand, he knew that that bastard John would have crept into his dreams if allowed. John was almost hovering over his shoulder at times when he was awake right now; he would never have missed the chance in sleep. The girls didn't need to be scared even more by their father's nightmares.

John. House shivered as the old promise echoed. _It will be your fault_. In the end, John hadn't been the one to kill her after all; House had taken a hand in that himself. But so had she, concealing symptoms, ignoring her doctor's advice. He should have put her through a thorough review of systems himself before they even started those sessions. He had known she was 75.

As was Thornton. How much time did _he_ have left?

House dodged that thought and ran straight back into the memories of John. The funeral. His stomach twisted into a knot. He knew he had to go, that he owed her that, but he hoped he wouldn't manage to ruin things. John's funeral was the only one he had ever managed to attend most of, and the memories and predictions then had been held off partly by the resentment at his captivity and partly by novelty. Once forced to go, once he had to walk through that door into the room with no possible escape left, he had focused firmly on the experience of seeing John _dead_. Actually dead, powerless, lying there like anyone else dead would. His heart wasn't beating, his blood not circulating. His hands were folded quietly and would never again reach out for Greg. His mouth was silenced. House had run through all the medical facts of death, but even so, he had been trembling a little as he reached for John's earlobe to snip that piece off, and the annoyingly nonlogical part of him had just been waiting for John to erupt out of the casket and accost him in front of them all.

But Blythe's funeral. There would be no _take that, you bastard_ satisfaction to help keep the predictions at bay, no sense of ultimate victory. No, that really _would_ be a funeral, like most people went to one. How on earth did they do it, face a loved one and know that this was the _last_ time to ever see them, ever? Even without the guilt, he couldn't imagine how the process could ever help anybody. They called that closure? Closure was when the lid on the casket banged down, and the only meaning was that it was all over and couldn't be fixed. He had to get through it somehow, though. He just hoped he wouldn't make that predicted fatal (his mind couldn't help pointing out the irony of the word) mistake and ruin it for everyone there, all of them looking at him, pitying and laughing in turn, instead of at Blythe.

If he did, at least his girls wouldn't have to see it. They didn't need to see Blythe lying frozen and still in her casket, either. No, they were far better off here, safe with Marina. The nanny had asked when the funeral was this morning on first being told the news, and Cuddy had simply told her it wasn't arranged yet. Marina had accepted that with one of those painfully sympathetic looks at House.

Arranging the funeral. What was Thornton trying to do here? House had made it clear that he wouldn't get to meet the girls this way, and the other man hadn't even wavered on his offer. Did he just want to see House himself? Was he really that desperate? House wondered if the offer would have disappeared if he had said that he himself wouldn't come.

He had to come. And that meant facing Blythe's funeral, and seeing Thornton again, and facing John. He knew that John would be there in memory even if not physically. He wouldn't be able to escape him. Thornton at least wouldn't be as hard to face as the other two. House's breathing was accelerating a little as he thought of John and that funeral, and his muscles were tightening up. One muscle led the charge, of course. His damned leg was beginning to threaten to cramp, and he knew he'd been sitting still as long as he safely could.

House tried shifting position subtly, not disturbing Cuddy, and of course, it didn't work. She woke up immediately. "Greg? What's wrong?"

He would have gladly lied, but she would know in a minute anyway. "Leg. I just needed to move a little."

Guilt flashed across her face, and she immediately jumped up, turning to kneel on the floor. She reached for his thigh, and he automatically turned a little in the chair to give her better access. Her magical hands with their uncanny gift for chasing out the worst of the pain. Her loving hands. To him, the second quality still amazed him more, that she could touch something as ugly as that crater in his leg with love. The spasm averted, she stood up again and put her hand on his shoulder. It was almost as tense as the leg, even if not spasming. "Greg," she started, and her cell phone rang.

She pulled it out, and House knew immediately who it was from the relief mixed with tension on her face, followed by the quick glance toward him. She answered. "Hello?"

In the next moment, tension kicked relief clear off the field. Something new, something even she hadn't thought of yet, another complication. House steeled himself. Thornton was backing out, running away, wouldn't arrange things after all, and she would be stuck with all of it, because House himself would never be able to do it. "Mmph. That's a tough one." _Yes, it is,_ he echoed silently. _I'm sorry, Lisa._

Thornton said something else, and she sighed. "Just a minute. I really think I'd better ask him that." _Ask _him that? What was there to ask? Thornton had reconsidered. He couldn't blame his father, really, if he'd finally given up, on this funeral and on everything. "Greg? There's a double plot. She said once she wanted that, but that was before. Do you want your mother buried next to John or somewhere else totally?"

Relief flooded through him as he realized that Thornton really was setting things up and had not abandoned his self-assigned task. Immediately on its heels came the memories of John again. Should she be buried with him? Not that she would care; she was _dead_. Thornton must be trying to figure out which way would spare him, but nothing would spare him. John would be inescapable during the services, and whether it was this plot or one a hundred feet away would not change that in the least. He felt like yelling, really blazing away at Thornton's unwanted sympathy and futile efforts to make it _easier_ on him, of all things (_about 50 years too late for _that_ effort, Dad)_, but he kept his voice down, trying not to wake the girls. "What the hell difference does it make where we bury her? It's all a hole in the ground, and it's not like they're going to be having dates or something down there. I don't care. Let him decide."

She read his tone flawlessly anyway, of course. "Okay." Turning away, she walked across the hall to the bedroom, taking the rest of the call privately. He stayed in the rocking chair, watching the girls. What a total train wreck of a week.

Cuddy came back after a few minutes. "The funeral is Monday at 10:30. Burial at 1:30, and she will be next to him." She was watching very closely, trying to read a reaction there, but he had none. As he'd said, it didn't make any difference. "The burial will be private."

That _did_ get a reaction as relief returned. At least the crowd there to see his potential mistakes would be far less. If he could get through the funeral, the burial should be easier. "Thanks," he mumbled, looking down.

"That was _his_ idea," she specified.

House sighed. "He's really doing it?"

"Yes, Greg. It's all arranged. He just wanted our input on that one question."

He shook his head, bewildered again. "Why?"

"He loves you."

He scowled and immediately changed the subject. "When _they_ wake up, I want to go down to PPTH for a little while and check on Wilson." She looked at him first, then at them. Not only the girls' issues, but she wasn't sure he was safe out alone. "I _don't_ need a babysitter," he snarled.

She touched his shoulder. "I'm not trying to be a babysitter, Greg. But I'm not sure that's a good idea yet. The girls are still too wired; even five minutes with us out on the porch is pushing it." He remained stubbornly silent. "We just got a victory getting them to nap in here. Let's not follow it up with another wreck. Why don't you just call Wilson instead?"

He was watching the girls again. "We have to try leaving. Really leaving, I mean. We have to do that to know."

She knew anyway. She thought he did, too, but he wasn't ready to face the fact yet. All she could do right now was try to minimize collateral damage while he came laboriously to his decision. "I know. We will try that, but please, not today. Please, Greg. I think having one day of purely good things, of us constantly here, will make that test a little easier." Which was true.

He shifted uneasily, then lurched to his feet. "Stay here with them. I'll call Wilson." He limped off to the bedroom.

House didn't stretch out on the bed this time. Instead, he walked a track around it, stretching his leg a little under Belle's annoying gaze. He punched speed dial two and looked at his watch. Why the hell hadn't Wilson already called anyway?

"I'm working on it, House." The oncologist didn't waste time with a salutation.

"It's about time. What have you been doing all day till now?"

"Seeing _patients_. Live patients."

House reached the end of his track again and made an annoyed turn. "You could have skipped lunch."

"I _did_ skip lunch. That's when I did rounds. I'm just getting results now myself on the samples."

House stopped briefly. "What are those results?"

"Just finished looking at it in the lab for the third time. It's signet ring cell. Very rare to the appendix, more often stomach, which is why I reran it, but it was appendiceal primary with her. The ME sent over the appendix, several metastatic nodules from the peritoneal cavity, and also samples from normal-appearing sections of the stomach and intestines."

House closed his eyes. "That's a very aggressive one, isn't it?"

"Yes. Very aggressive, fast growing, resistant to chemotherapy. I doubt she had more than a year, even with treatment."

"You're _sure_ it's signet ring cell?"

"You can't mistake that one, House. The whole reason they call it signet ring is how it looks under the microscope."

House resumed his limp pace. "I found a bottle of Pepto in her suitcase. Did you see that?"

"No, but I was just stuffing the clothes in and zipping it down quickly since I wasn't sure how long you'd be gone. Abdominal pain definitely could be a symptom, and lots of people mistake any abdominal pain for routine GI symptoms."

"She was complaining about that and fatigue to her doctor. He had just recommended further tests, including EKG and abdominal ultrasound, and she put it off until after Christmas."

Wilson sighed. "Patients are idiots sometimes. We all know that. So you called her doctor?"

"Yeah. He's out of town, but I've got an appointment next Wednesday afternoon with him in Lexington. I want to see that chart. I need to call her psychiatrist for an appointment, too. Meanwhile, how do we treat this?"

Wilson paused. "You _do_ realize she's dead, don't you?"

House threw the cell phone across the room, Belle dodging quickly as it zipped past her over the bed. He quickly limped around to retrieve it, and his voice was scathing as he picked it back up. "I'd _noticed_ that, moron, believe it or not. I was the one who found her." Finding her. He shivered, plunged again into remembering that room, and finally sat down on the bed.

"House? Are you okay?"

He blinked and focused. "Fine. How do we treat signet ring cell carcinoma?"

"We could try 5-FU, leucovoran, oxaliplatin and irinotecan. Maybe Avastin, too. But the prognosis wouldn't be good, House." Wilson hesitated. "I wanted to ask you something. Is it okay if I go to the funeral?"

House would appreciate having him there, and the request warmed his chilled soul a little. Of course, his tone didn't reflect that. "At least you're asking permission this time first instead of just forcing me to go." Silence. Guilt stabbed at him. "Yeah. Come on if you want. It's Monday at 10:30. I'll be there a few more days, because I've got the appointment Wednesday."

Wilson heard the genuine welcome behind the words that time. "All right. I'll come along, then. I'll do some more research on this cancer, see if anything new has come up. It is _very_ rare. But with any patient with a resistant cancer who was already widely metastatic, we'd basically just be buying time." House didn't respond, and the oncologist switched subjects quickly. "Do you mind if we come over tonight?"

"Quit walking on eggshells, Wilson. I'm not going to break."

"Fine then. We're coming over once we get off work and pick up Daniel. If you don't like it, throw us out once we get there. How's that?"

House gave a faint smile. "Whether you get thrown out or not might depend on the food you bring."

"Chinese?"

"Hmm. Might at least take the sacks before throwing you out."

Wilson chuckled. "See you tonight, House." He hung up, and House sat on the bed for a while, scratching Belle's ears. Finally, he stood up and opened the door, walking back across to the nursery. The girls were still asleep, and he beckoned. Cuddy got up from the rocking chair and joined him in the doorway.

"Wilson wants to come to the funeral," he said. "Fills his need to be needed. Course, he'd be missing work. You're the boss."

She looked relieved, probably at the thought of a little backup. "He can have the time. We'll probably fly down Sunday; I'll check on planes. And back Thursday, since you've got the appointment Wednesday."

Together, they turned and looked at their daughters. Five days. They would be gone five days. House could feel her worry joining his own, but at least at this moment, she didn't say anything. They stood there in silence for a while, watching their girls, and finally he went back to the rocking chair and sat down, and she carefully, annoyingly carefully, rearranged herself on his lap. They were there when the girls woke up.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: The return of Jensen. I love Thomas as a character, but Jensen will always hold a special place with me. Hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it. Next chapter is House again, but things move more quickly in the next few, and we will be in Lexington before long. Plenty will happen there, funeral and otherwise, and there's still a lot of this story left. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Jensen sat on the sofa, his hands wandering across the guitar, a somewhat restless medley that could never settle on just one song. Earlier, he and Cathy had had a good practice session on their duet that House had written, which was coming together nicely. But even after Cathy left to go to a friend's house for a rare weeknight slumber party, enjoying the Christmas break with no school, Jensen had kept playing, the melodies traveling with his thoughts.

Part of his mind was still replaying those sessions, and as much as he knew that was a futile process, he knew he would have to go through it and let himself emotionally as well as rationally come to that conclusion. Had he been _too_ focused on House, forgetting that there were two participants who were both under stress by the discussions? Possibly. What he kept coming back to, though, was the two hours between stopping and when he left, the peaceful interval when everything was fine. He didn't think that all of the blame, at least, lay on those sessions. Still, he might have been a little one-sided in his approach. He didn't know if it had made a difference, but he did think he might have done a better job balancing the two of them in retrospect.

Even more, he was worried about House. If the other man's professional trust in him had been shaken, they really _did_ have a problem, because House was going to have a very difficult time dealing with Blythe's death, and as Cuddy had pointed out, nobody else could really substitute here as a therapist. Bringing a stranger off the bench, no matter how professionally qualified, to land in the middle of one of the biggest crises of House's life would be challenging to put it mildly. They were in for some tough sessions in the next few months even with their nearly 3-year therapeutic relationship as a foundation. What if that foundation had been cracked?

Melissa came into the living room, and he saw the worry in her eyes. That was his third turmoil of the moment. He had to be very careful right now, had to watch himself, had to convince her that it wasn't all going to happen again. Cathy was too young to remember much of the early years; she had only been three when they divorced. But Melissa remembered the catalyst as well as he did. While he had been somewhat obsessive in the first place about work, what really knocked him off the deep end had been the first patient he ever lost to suicide. From that point, he had determined to never miss anything again with any patient, to never have a therapeutic failure and to completely fix them all, and work had become not just an obsession but a crusade. Every single patient was another cause, every night work had come home with him, and his family had moved progressively more to the back burner, not intentionally but just through lack of adequate time left over while trying to psychiatrically save the universe.

Melissa had resented the job a little even before that and definitely after, all of the patients more and more representing just her husband's proxy mistresses in her eyes. To her, he was having an affair not sexually but with his job. She had shut down herself, not even trying to talk to him, understand his feelings, or be supportive, and the conversations when he tried to make tightly scheduled family time more and more turned into arguments. He had been preoccupied, but she had been outright mad. It was ultimately for Cathy's sake that she had left, eventually realizing that a child growing up in a frozen, angry stalemate of a two-parent home is actually not better off than one raised in a single-parent home. Staying together only for the kids wasn't a favor to them after all. Jensen, with nothing left except the job at that point, drove himself even harder.

In a strange twist of fate, it had been his _other_ patient lost to suicide, the second one, that had opened his eyes. Jensen had pored over everything, trying to figure out where he missed it, and had been forced to conclude even from obsession that there was _nothing_ he had left undone, no warning signs he had missed, no lack of effort on his part that he might have improved. It had just happened, without warning. It wasn't his fault, and he hadn't failed somehow to stop it. But totaling up his actual hours on the job during the professional postmortem that night had stunned him. He had had no idea they were so many. No one truly reading that total could have considered it healthy, either mentally or physically, and that night, he finally read it. For the first time in a few years, he had walked out of the office empty handed that evening and simply gone home to sleep, and the next day, he had called a professional friend and set up sessions himself.

Melissa hadn't been convinced he was changing, of course, though for two years, he had tried to tell her. It had taken Cathy's illness at age seven to make Melissa really look at him again and notice that he _was_ putting his daughter over the practice, didn't even hesitate to cancel dozens of appointments. House had also helped to finally break the ice, not just saving Cathy but also becoming an individual in Melissa's eyes with skills and worth of his own, not just a patient, another embodiment of what had taken her husband away. She realized that she had never truly thought of the patients as people before. It had taken almost a year from then to the remarriage, but with the bilateral mistakes of the past admitted, they had slowly grown back together. Their second marriage, with more insight and more mutual effort at understanding and support, was going much better than the first.

She came across to the couch now holding two steaming mugs, and he put his guitar down in the open case at his feet and took one cup while she got settled next to him. It was hot spiced cider, one of his favorites. "Mmm. Thanks."

She slid her free arm around his shoulders and snuggled in. "You're welcome. Michael. . ."

He tensed up immediately. "I'm not going to go work crazy again and leave you two."

"Stop it and listen to me for a minute. That wasn't what I was thinking."

"You're worried, though."

"Yes, I am. About _you_. But not that you're going to repeat history. Actually, that first time, what you did immediately after getting the call was head down to the office to spend hours going over all the charts for your patients the next day. You sure weren't wasting time sitting around in the living room playing music a whole day later."

That difference hadn't struck him. "I didn't even remember that part."

"We've both grown since then. What I _am_ worried about is that you're going to try not to share what you're feeling because you'll be afraid I'll hit the limit. I wasn't really thinking about what you were feeling the last time; I only noticed what you did. We both reacted badly then and made mistakes. But what I was about to say, I think you ought to call Paul and talk to him about it. Me, too, as much as you can. But please, call him."

Paul had been his own therapist, retired to Florida since early October. The two families had had a dinner out together in celebration of his "escaping the cold, frozen north," and he had left stating his goal to spend the rest of his life fishing. Jensen's sessions had been more social than anything by that point, and he hadn't gotten a replacement, something Paul himself had agreed with. "Paul's retired. Probably too busy fishing to talk to me."

"You know better. And they do have phones in Florida."

He sighed. "I was thinking about calling him anyway. Just didn't want to disturb his new life."

"One phone call isn't going to disturb him much. I'm sure part of him misses it. But there's one other thing. I think you ought to go to this woman's funeral."

That suggestion was a total surprise. "It's going to be in Lexington." He didn't know the time yet, just that Thornton was setting things up, but he did know from the sessions about the prepaid deal John had purchased.

"They have airports there. And phones, too."

"But I'd have to leave you and Cathy, and it will probably take a couple of days at least to deal with it all plus travel. I'm . . . I don't want you to think I'm just taking off to work again."

"You're not even going to mention the appointments next week you'd probably have to cancel? You thought of us first, not them. It's _okay_, Michael. But I know this has shaken you up, and I think you. . . I think you need to grieve for her yourself. I think going to her funeral would help give you closure. Take a few days and deal with it, and don't try to tell yourself that's the same thing as last time. Cathy and I know you'll come back. But you need this."

He finished off his cider and set the mug down on the coffee table, then pulled her closer. "Why do I need to bother Paul? You're not doing such a bad job yourself."

She smiled and leaned in to kiss him. At that moment, headlights splashed up on the window as a car turned into their driveway. Jensen looked up. "It's Mark," he announced.

_Good_, Melissa thought. She stood up, and Jensen leaned over to finish tucking in his guitar and close the case. In the next moment, he froze with the lid halfway down. "Where's my pick? It was right . . . _Mozart!_"

The kitten trotted into the room at his name and answered casually, though in that "my mouth is full" muffled meow. Sure enough, the stolen pick was clenched firmly in his jaws. Jensen launched off the couch, and the chase was on. Melissa laughed and went to open the front door. "Hi, Mark. Glad to see you."

"Come back here!" Mozart made a high-speed orbit of the room with Jensen in hot pursuit, then raced down the hall.

Mark stood with Melissa just inside the living room, eying the contest. "New exercise program?" he inquired.

Mozart ripped back down the hall and disappeared under the couch, emerging a moment later straight into Jensen's hands. "Gotcha, you little . . . all right, where is it?" He set the kitten down and then lifted one end of the couch, swinging it over several inches before putting it back down. Mozart and Jensen both pounced, ending up in a tug-of-war that time. The psychiatrist won, and the kitten promptly flopped over on his side and blinked blue eyes up at his audience, soaking up all the attention and purring like a helicopter.

"Wish we had a video of that," Mark said. "We could send it to that TV show."

"You know," his brother pointed out, "we still have contact information for that breeder. Melissa, why don't we give another one just like him to Courtney for her birthday in February?"

"Do, and you'll be dreading Cathy's next birthday." Mark walked over to move the couch back into place as Jensen safely closed the guitar case. Mozart promptly reached out to untie Mark's shoes. He bent to pick up the kitten, whom he'd already seen in action all last weekend during the family Christmas. "You'd better be glad you're cute," Mark told him. Mozart purred throatily.

"According to the breeder, they do settle down a little as they age," Melissa said. "He's only five months old. I'll go make another round of spiced cider, Mark." She disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving the twins alone.

Jensen moved the case over against the wall out of the way, then straightened up and faced his brother. Mark was finally looking and feeling back to normal, he thought. It had taken him several months to reach baseline again following his hospitalization in the summer. The psychiatrist felt another surge of gratitude toward House.

House. Damn it, he realized he wasn't Super Shrink by now, but why did something have to go so badly wrong involving his sessions with _that_ patient?

"I was in the mood for a game of chess," Mark stated.

Jensen didn't point out that Mark had chess partners available in Albany who didn't involve him driving two hours first. Mark was just being polite. He wouldn't push, and they could do nothing more than play chess all night if Jensen chose, but the unspoken concern was obvious. Mark knew more than anyone what his brother was feeling. "I might have contributed to causing somebody's death," Jensen said softly.

Mark flinched. "_Might_ have?" he asked.

"I don't know for sure. I'll never know for sure. The possibility is a real one, though."

"How?"

Jensen hesitated, picking the words carefully. "Call it lack of enough attention to detail."

"But it might have happened anyway even without you?"

"Right." He sighed. "I'm okay, big brother. It's just going to take a few days to get a handle on this." He just hoped that _House_ would ultimately be okay, would accept the help he was going to need here. Jensen turned away, getting the chess set off the bookshelves that lined most of the wall. Silently, he sat down and started setting it up on the coffee table, and Mark put the kitten down and joined his brother on the couch.

"If you ever want to talk about it, I do understand what it's like to hurt somebody badly through negligence. And there isn't any question that I did it."

"You were a kid. I'm supposed to be a professional by now with all kinds of training."

"That doesn't exempt you from being human. We all make mistakes. Assuming that you _did_ make one."

"I know. It was a hard lesson to learn, but I've got that one down by now; I can't save everybody. But I just wish. . ." He pulled back. "I can't talk too much about it. Let's just play chess."

Mark reached out and put his hand on his brother's arm. He was on Jensen's right, and his grip was warm directly over the old burn scar. "Okay. But I'm here."

"Thanks. I'm not going to jump off the deep end this time," he assured him.

"I know that already."

The unshakeable confidence there steadied him. "White or black?"

They settled into their game, Mark pushing from the beginning as usual, not cutting him an inch of slack. The focus was exactly what Jensen needed, and he felt himself rising to the challenge. By the time Melissa returned with three mugs, the twins were both bending over the game board, a mirror image in not only features but expression. To complete the picture, they were both, without intentional coordination today, wearing blue jeans and dark blue button-down shirts. She distributed the drinks, then sat down in the recliner, watching them and distracting the kitten from those appealing game pieces. The tension in her eased a little, but it was a different flavor of tension this time, not like years ago. He wasn't shutting his family out and retreating mentally into work. She hoped she could continue to be as supportive as she should and not get impatient, but she could feel the lessons of their past trials, of old mistakes that they had realized now. They might be scarred, but they were stronger for it.

Mark won the first game, but it was a pretty good battle. They had just reset the board when Jensen's cell phone rang. He pulled it out, and his expression changed immediately. "I need to take this." With an apologetic glance at his family, he stood up and headed for his study, answering at the same time. "Hello." House had called him a few different times now, never talking for long and never getting into his feelings, but at least he was staying in touch and continuing to function in a numb way.

"Lisa heard back from Thornton." House dove straight into the middle of things this time.

Jensen closed the study door and sat down at his desk. "Is everything set for the funeral?"

"Yeah. He really did it." House sounded confused and hating the confusion. "I figured he'd back out once it got difficult."

"He wouldn't give his word and then back out, Dr. House. You can trust him on that."

House predictably dodged from that thought. "Funeral's Monday at 10:30. Burial at 1:30." With a break between, Jensen noted, and guessed correctly the reason why. "You. . . you could come to it if you want."

Jensen settled back against the back of his desk chair for the first time, relaxing just a little. House _wanted_ him there. He still wasn't sure if things would change when they got down to full sessions or not, but that was encouraging, at least. "Thank you. I'd like to come."

"It is in Lexington," House reminded him.

"I know. You're probably flying down Sunday then?"

"Probably. Lisa's doing the planes and hotels; talk to her." Another pause. House sounded so fragile right now, so tense he might break. But he had at least asked. "Will your family mind?"

"No. Actually, Melissa was just telling me a little while ago that she wants me to go to the funeral. She thinks I could use the closure myself. She's right, too."

"What the hell do people _get_ out of those? She's . . . she's dead. Some empty ceremony won't change that."

"Actually, it does help people. It's a time to remember someone, to share those memories and listen to the memories that others have. A time to say goodbye. John warped you with his predictions, but he was totally wrong, as usual. A funeral really can help to provide closure, Dr. House."

"How many have you been to?" House asked abruptly.

Jensen paused, counting. "Well over a dozen. That's not all for family. Enough of them were, though."

"You went for your parents?"

"Yes. Totally different experiences there. Dad died abruptly, in an accident. There wasn't any chance to prepare, and it completely shocked us. Mom had cancer, and with her, there was a downward spiral. It was almost a release with her, an ending of pain. But in both cases, it did help to go to the funeral." He thought suddenly of his brother out talking to Melissa and wondering about him - he could feel along their shared connection the worry tinged with curiosity about this call. "Thank you for helping Mark," he said, once again grateful that Mark's funeral was not on that list. Funerals did help, but not needing them yet was even better.

"Is he there?" House asked.

"Yes. He came down to play chess."

"And to check on you." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. This is hard to handle. That's all right for it to be hard to handle. We can give it the time it needs." House didn't reply. "How's Dr. Cuddy?"

"Worried and . . ." House stalled.

"And what?"

House sighed. The answer was reluctant, but it did finally come. "We're kind of having a difference of opinion."

"About what?"

"Rachel and Abby. I told her how you said they'd be fine and get over being scared quickly. Patterson told her the same thing."

Jensen was getting confused himself, feeling like he had only half of the details here with some majorly important pieces missing. "They will get over it quickly with reassurance from you."

"Exactly. She doesn't believe it."

"Aren't they improving?"

"Yes. Not fast enough for her, though. Every time we left today, just outside for five minutes, they were still watching."

"Of course they would be. But why would Dr. Cuddy expect any differently in just one . . ." The actual topic under discussion hit Jensen like a ton of bricks. "You aren't thinking of _leaving_ them, are you? Not for several days while you're gone to Lexington?" Dead silence. _Oh, boy_. Jensen took a deep breath. Come down too hard, and he would shut House down or get him resentful, but that idea wasn't just wrong; it was damaging. That blow to the girls this soon could have some major, long-term consequences. House wanted his opinion, even if he hadn't quite asked for it. "I don't think that would work, Dr. House. In fact, I think it could do a lot of damage. You don't have a big problem with them now; this current fear is just a misunderstanding, and it will settle down quickly. But leaving that soon for that long while they're still afraid will turn it into a big problem."

"You said they'd get over it," House challenged.

"Not before Sunday." Jensen scrambled, trying to keep his tone even. "Listen to me, Dr. House. This would make everything a hundred times harder for them. A lot of damage would be done. It would take months and months to fix that."

"They don't need to see . . . _things_," House insisted. "That's what would do more damage."

"Actually, it wouldn't. They don't have your framework of John. I think it would _help_ them to go to the funeral. They need to say goodbye to her themselves."

Dubious silence for a moment. "You're nuts. They're just little kids; they aren't ready for that."

"They definitely aren't ready to be left behind."

"Rachel stayed behind for our honeymoon," House reminded him. "No big deal."

"She wasn't already terrified of you going away forever before you left. You're worried about making some mistake at the funeral, too, and them seeing you, but it would be far worse for them to . . ."

House cut him off. He wasn't ready to have a session on that yet. "Got to go before the others come looking. Bye." He didn't hang up yet, though.

Jensen gave it one last, desperate appeal for the moment. "Please don't do this, Dr. House. It _will_ scare them far worse than Dr. Cuddy's misstatements did." He quickly changed the subject, saving House the trouble. "I'd be glad to come down to Lexington with you. I'll call Dr. Cuddy tomorrow and check on times, and we can get reservations all together."

"Wilson's coming, too. Not Sandra and Daniel, but he wanted to."

"That's a good idea. He'll help. When are you coming back?"

"I'm seeing Mom's doctor Wednesday afternoon. He's on vacation until then. Seeing her shrink at 11:00 Wednesday, too." The last statement almost ended as a question.

"I'd like to talk to her psychiatrist myself," Jensen suggested obligingly.

"Might as well as long as you're down there. You'd just pester me with questions if you didn't hear him first hand." There was an audible knock on the door on the other end. "Got to go," House repeated, not a maneuver that time.

"All right. I'll talk to you later, and I'll come down Sunday." Jensen thought of repeating his plea for the girls, then left it alone for now. House would hopefully think about things, and he would be more receptive if he wasn't cornered. "Good night, Dr. House."

House hung up in reply. Jensen broke the connection and pocketed his cell phone, then shook his head. "_Please_ listen to us," he urged the desk. It didn't reply. Hopefully Cuddy would keep working on him.

Mark and Melissa were talking quietly in the living room about Christmas, and both looked up at him quickly as he came back into the room. "I'm going to the funeral," he announced, watching Melissa's face carefully. There was nothing but relief there, no resentment. "It's on Monday, so I'll need to fly out Sunday. I . . . I might not be back until Thursday. There are conferences with a few other doctors Wednesday about what happened. If you want, I could come back Monday night instead."

Melissa shook her head. "Go ahead, Michael. We'll be fine."

Mark cast his vote, even though based on very sketchy details for him. "Sounds like a good idea to me. It should help with closure."

Jensen wished House were convinced of that. He sat back down on the couch next to his brother. "Ready to beat me again?"

"Sure." Mark made his opening move, and they were soon once more engrossed in the game, Melissa watching from the sidelines and holding Mozart.


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: Hello, readers. Here's the next installment, and I'll try to post the next chapter on New Year's Day if I get a chance, just because it takes place on New Year's Day (totally unplanned, that, but hey, if the symmetry offers itself, might as well try). I am working all day New Year's, at least hopefully though I doubt it, and the weather is also acting up, either of which could disrupt that plan, so if no New Year's chapter, sorry.

I truly admire authors adept enough in other languages to provide full scene dialogue, though I also think such should always be translated at the bottom and not just abandon readers to the not-so-tender clutches of Google translate. But I'm not good enough to be comfortable in it for extended speech. I know some of a few languages, but not fluent, and Spanish isn't one of them. So the scene with Marina will be in "translation." Same goes for another scene coming up in a few which hits a whole bunch more languages than this one in rapid-fire succession. If I say they're speaking something else, in your mind, just picture it that way. :)

(H/C)

Cuddy entered the bedroom, automatically locking the door, something they had been doing at night ever since the girls became mobile. A moment later, she hesitated with her hand still on the knob. If they needed her . . .

"The monitor will be on," House pointed out. "You're incapable of sleeping through a call to duty, anyway." There was guilt underlying the statement, though. He definitely hadn't pulled his weight on parental duties last night.

"You're right," she said, not sounding totally convinced, and started for her side to double check the monitor. He had just shaken out a handful of evening pills and put the bottles away in the nightstand drawer. He gulped down the pills pointedly without water, giving her a challenging glare as she flinched. Cuddy wondered what exactly was in that handful and if he had taken the full dose on the sleeping pill, but she knew asking would just antagonize him and certainly not change his decision, whatever it had been. She'd find out soon enough anyway.

She went through the bathroom, changed into pajamas, then crept out for one final visual check. They were sweetly asleep, though it had taken a while. She and House both had promised to be right over in their own bedroom and not go anywhere. When she re-entered the room, House shot her a worried though slightly drowsy look. "Well?"

"They're fine." For now.

He relaxed. "Of course they're fine. I've been telling you they'd get over it quickly. So have Jensen and Patterson." He looked away when mentioning Jensen, though. She wondered how much they had gotten into during their brief phone call before Abby wanted him.

She climbed into bed, checked the monitor for the third time, then turned out the light. After a moment, he sighed. "You're lying there _worrying_. It's keeping me awake."

Cuddy really didn't want to argue about this again right before going to sleep. "I'm sorry," she said instead, leaning over to kiss him. He responded, but both of them were still on edge, and both knew it. She could feel him fighting the meds - he had taken _some _dose - but she didn't think it was the full one. There was too much of a fight going on. _Please, let this be a peaceful night for all of us,_ she thought.

Right under two hours later, precisely on schedule, he had a nightmare. They were arguing about taking another boost on the sleeping pill when the girls woke up, scared and wanting to sleep with them. That at least cast the deciding vote on the meds.

All of them were sound asleep in the big bed when her cell phone rang the next morning. She woke up immediately but still felt ragged after the interruptions with House and the girls. 6:20 a.m. It was Jensen.

"Hello," she answered softly.

He read more into her tone than she had realized was there. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up." He knew she was a morning owl, like he himself was.

"Usually I'd already be up long before now, but last night was a little disrupted." She quietly slid out of bed, placing her pillow up against Abby, who was closest to her side this time. Slipping on her robe, she gave a firm look at Belle as if handing off direct custody, then quietly walked to the door and into the hall. House was still out, but she didn't want to wake the girls. Everything was peaceful right now, and she wanted to postpone this day as long as possible. Today, he would insist on actually leaving them to see how they reacted, and sooner or later, he would tell them his plans for next week.

The psychiatrist sighed. "Is he having nightmares again?"

"When he isn't totally drugged out. The girls have helped a little by insisting on sleeping with us, but they started out last night in their own beds, and he got one round of nightmares before they moved in here and he stopped being stubborn about the meds."

"Was it about John and funerals?"

"He wouldn't say anything about it. It was a very bad one, though."

"I found out last night about his plan with the girls."

Cuddy looked back into the room at them: Her family, all together. _That_ was what they needed, not just for the sake of the girls but for him, too. "That's never going to work. I think even _he's_ going to realize that before we leave, but I hope we don't have to upset them too much first with these damned tests. He was trying to condition them yesterday for a while, five minutes out, five minutes back in."

"Hopefully he'll come around. Keep letting him know your opinion. I gave him mine as firmly as I dared to last night, but you can push a little harder than I could. Meanwhile, I wanted to talk to you about the schedule. Are you flying down Sunday?"

"Yes, and back Thursday. I'll make reservations this morning for that and the hotel."

"Just go ahead and reserve me a slot, too, for whatever you do, and I'll pay you back. That way, we'll all be together. I'll drive down to Princeton Sunday morning."

"You don't have to pay us back," she protested. "This is going to make you miss several days of work, after all."

"I'm not only doing this for him," Jensen admitted. "I need this for _me_. My wife was telling me to go last night even before he called."

"For closure," she said.

"Yes."

"I just wish _he_ saw things that way." She looked back through the open bedroom door to her husband. "I'd like to kill John House. Maybe I can at least spit on his grave or something while we're there."

"You're stronger than John is. Remember that, Dr. Cuddy. You prove John wrong every day just by being there through things. The present is stronger than the past, and we will get him through this somehow."

"Thanks. Thanks for coming, too. Even if you are doing it for you, too, you always calm him down just by being there. That will help. Back to logistics, what about a compromise? You pay for the hotel, and we'll get the plane ticket."

"Deal," he yielded.

"Do you mind rooming with Wilson? He's paying his way, although I did offer. I think he still feels guilty about John's funeral. It would give both of you a break to split it."

"Not at all."

Abby stirred, opening her eyes. "Got to go," Cuddy said quickly. "The girls are waking up. I'll send you the exact flight and times, okay?"

"All right. Good bye for now."

She hung up and quickly went back into the room just as Abby was getting down to the blank spot in her inventory of the room's occupants. "I'm right here, Abby. It's okay."

Abby sat up. "Morning, Mama."

"Good morning." She hugged her daughter, then climbed back into bed.

Abby reached over Rachel, who was waking up too, and poked her father. "Morning, Dada."

"He's still asleep. Let's try not to wake him up, okay? But he's fine. See him breathing? If you put your hand right there, you can feel his chest move." Rachel joined her sister in the vitals check, and Abby then looked back to Cuddy and put her hand on her mother's chest at the same spot. "Yes, I'm breathing, too. Everybody does. Even Belle. That's how we know we're alive." She guided her daughter's hand down to the cat, and Abby smiled, looking frighteningly analytical. Cuddy suddenly had an image of her daughter as a physician-musician thirty years down the road.

The future. It was refreshing to look past the looming mountain range of the next week for a moment and remind herself that they _would_ get past it, even if she dreaded the climb. She lay there, watching her girls watch their father.

(H/C)

A little later, once a movie had been popped in for the girls, Cuddy left things under Marina's eye and retreated to the bedroom to take a shower - and to make a phone call. Thornton answered promptly. "Good morning, Lisa."

"Everything's fine," she reassured him. "At least, nothing new is wrong that wasn't wrong before. I haven't got much time, but I'm making travel plans, and I wanted to ask you, what hotel are you staying at?"

He got the point instantly. "Are you sure he'd like that?"

She was fairly sure, although he would probably kick like a horse just for appearances. Still, he hadn't specified a different hotel, and she knew he hadn't just forgotten. Thornton was on his mind right along with Blythe and John. "You _deserve_ this, Thomas. He knows that himself. He hasn't told you to get lost and just leave town now that the funeral's arranged, has he?"

"No, he hasn't."

"He knows he's going to see you. He actually _wants_ to see you. He told me to make hotel reservations, and he didn't say anywhere except yours." She thought she would wind up getting some heat for the decision, but that was only because he couldn't admit yet that he wanted to spend time with his father. "He's had chances to set it up with both of us to limit time with you as much as possible, and he didn't. So which hotel are you staying at?"

"I'm at the Hyatt. Just a minute; I've got their card over on the nightstand." He walked over and read off the phone number. "Could have gone cheaper, but I thought we might as well be comfortable if we have to do this at all."

She had to smile on that we. "You knew we'd wind up there."

"I _hoped_."

"That's fine with me. Paying a little more is worth it for better facilities. Travel is rough on him anyway, so the accommodations make a difference. Do they have hot tubs?" She suddenly remembered Blythe and their hot tub, another possible conspirator in her death. They needed to reclaim that hot tub for themselves, but not with so much else in turmoil. It could wait in line at least until after they had the girls decided.

"Yes, they do. Are you flying down Sunday?"

"Yes. I've already looked at flights. We'll get there mid afternoon Sunday, and we'll leave Thursday." She heard the unspoken question. "He has an appointment with Blythe's doctor to talk about things Wednesday. And as for you, he'll let you know without any room for doubt if he really wants you to leave earlier. He'll probably make it rough on you at times to stay, though."

"I can take it." He sighed. "I'm almost ashamed to say I'm looking forward to this. Not the funeral at all, just seeing him. I wish things were completely different, but since we have this card, it's the one positive side of it for me. Not that I was putting a price on setting things up."

"I know that. Like I said, you _are_ making progress. Sooner or later, he'll believe you. About setting things up, are you doing okay? I know that had to remind you of your wife."

"Yes, it did." His reply was as forthright as she was growing to expect from him. "I'm dealing with it. My memories are good ones, at least."

"Take a little time for yourself between now and Sunday, okay?"

"I will. I've already got an appointment in about an hour for a trail ride at a rent-a-horse place."

"Good. Be careful, though." She couldn't help the flash of worry in the postscript.

"Always." The tone on that sounded _so_ similar to House's that she closed her eyes for a moment, lost in thought. How had anyone knowing both Thornton and his son well for years ever thought that the facts could have been concealed from John? But Thornton hadn't seen that much of Greg, had only gotten Blythe's 129 deluded letters with her version of home sweet home. It was Blythe herself, believing it for over 50 years, who should have realized much sooner that the game was up, even if she hadn't seen the abuse. Cuddy gritted her teeth, the anger surging up again.

"Lisa?"

"I'm here. Just thinking."

He obviously heard the edge on her tone but didn't push. "After the ride, I'm going back to the senior center for lunch to let Blythe's friends talk some more. They do all know everything that was on the news, but nobody is going to bring up the past with Greg; I'm making sure of that." There was an edge of steel in his voice for a moment. "They're a good bunch of people, though, and they mean well. She had a lot of friends. She was happy the last few years after John died. I'm glad of that."

Cuddy flipped back from anger to sympathy. Damned emotions. She wished the merry-go-round would _stop_ on one for a few minutes. "I'm glad of that, too."

"People are going to get there a little early for the funeral, just a time to visit and share memories before things get started. Greg doesn't have to come to that. It might help him, though, listening to them."

"We'll see. I agree, but I'm not sure he will. I'd better go. See you Sunday when we get to the hotel, but he'll probably be hurting by then. Don't take things personally."

"I'll see you then, Lisa." He paused for a moment. "You might take your own advice."

"What advice?"

"Take a little time for yourself between now and Sunday."

She was touched by his concern. "I'll try. Bye, Thomas."

"Bye, Lisa."

She put the cell phone aside and turned on the shower, suddenly wanting to spend time with Thornton herself, totally aside from House's perspective or the girls. Already, he seemed part of the family.

(H/C)

Cuddy emerged from the shower to find things fairly peaceful in the living room, though Rachel and Abby both marked her return immediately. They were watching the movie, and House was sitting on the couch allegedly watching it, too, though she didn't think he saw anything on the screen. He was deep in thought. He jumped slightly as she came around the edge of the couch, and then he looked at the girls and set his shoulders. He was going to bring up leaving.

She quickly jumped in herself, heading him off at the pass. "Marina, can we talk to you in the kitchen for a minute?" House glared at her, and she returned the look steadily. Marina had to know well ahead of Sunday, after all.

He and Marina stood, and the girls started to scramble off the couch themselves. "It's okay, girls. We're just going to talk about lunch in the kitchen; we'll be right there. Just for a minute. Look, the kitten like Belle is coming back on." It was harder to distract Rachel than usual, and Abby even harder, but they stayed on the couch with Belle herself, looking back and forth from the TV to their parents. Cuddy stopped in the edge of the kitchen door, her back still visible, and kept her voice very low. "Marina, the funeral is going to be Monday morning in Lexington. We're flying down Sunday. We won't be back until Thursday, because there are some other things to do there."

"Good, good. You take your time. So you don't need me next week?"

"Well. . ." House started and then stopped, looking at Cuddy. She was silent. She wasn't going to be the one to say it.

"What is it?" Marina asked, looking from one to the other of them.

House gave Cuddy an accusing look. "We do need you to keep the girls next week. They aren't coming," he said softly.

Marina stared. "They aren't coming? But they're so scared because of her death. You can't just take off for the whole week right now and. . ." House looked down like a guilty 5-year-old. Spanish fire lit in her eyes, and in the next moment, the nanny seized House firmly by the left arm and dragged him, though slowly, through the living room back down the hall. The bedroom door shut firmly. Cuddy sat down between the girls, who had given up all pretense at watching the movie.

"What's wrong?" Rachel asked.

"Marina just needs to talk to Daddy for a minute." She hugged them, one on each side, pulling them protectively close. "It's okay, girls." Not quite a lie, she rationalized. She _did_ think House would ultimately decide to take them. She was just trying to minimize damage until he did. If they could avoid actually telling the girls there ever had been a chance they could be left for five days, all the better. "Look, the chase scene is coming up."

(H/C)

Marina pulled House into the bedroom, shut the door, and then spun back to face him. Not a trace of sympathetic hovering now. He didn't think he had ever seen her this upset, and when she spoke, it was in Spanish, the words tumbling over each other urgently, though she wasn't actually yelling. He thought the only reason she wasn't was the little ears in the other end of the house. "Now, you _listen_ to me. You are going to walk out on those two precious, little girls, your daughters, right after they've been scared out of their wits and decided that you two are about to die, and you're going to _leave them here_? For _five days_? Just walk on out the door? You _saw _things yesterday. You _can't_ do this to them. They'd be having nightmares for months about it, all because you just don't want to take them to the funeral. Idiot! Children are _welcome _at a funeral. Nobody minds them. They need to go anyway, to say goodbye to their grandmother, but they sure DON'T NEED TO BE LEFT BY YOU." She ran down and stopped only for oxygen. "So you take them, too." She gave a brisk toss of her head as if that settled the matter, which for her, it did.

House cringed. This wasn't taking him back to his childhood. Nobody in his childhood had ever gone after him like that, purely verbally, with such disappointment in her tone and eyes. It would have been easier to take a beating. He pushed down the growing worry that she (and Cuddy and Jensen) were all right and tried to summon up the appropriate sharp edge to his voice. "So I just take them, too? It's not that simple, damn it."

Marina shook her head quickly. "No! It _is_ that simple. You're just being a stubborn _man_." She made the simple word sound worse than many other epithets hurled at him over the years.

This wasn't fair, damn it. She didn't know about Thornton, didn't know about John's funeral predictions, and didn't have any idea what she was talking about. "Are you saying you won't do it?" he challenged, moving forward a limping step. "So _you'd_ just leave them when they need you, too? Doesn't leave you much room to criticize me, you know."

She didn't back down, even though he was far taller. "I'm not their parent. But _if _you insist on doing this, I _will_ keep them, because they deserve at least _one_ familiar person around while they go to pieces. But when you come back, they will be _shattered._ You're their _father, _and instead of acting like it, you're ignoring what they need to try to make things easier on yourself. _Shame!_ If you want some help dealing with them during the trip and all, I'll go along, too, but they belong with _you_."

House abruptly limped around her and opened the door. Down the hall and to the front door, though he did take a second to toss one quick, "Back in a minute. I'll just be outside," to the girls. He sat down on the porch, his body quivering slightly. After a minute, the door behind him opened, and Cuddy came out, handed him his coat, and sat down on the step next to him. She put an arm around him, and he jerked away sharply, letting her know in no uncertain terms that he was mad at her. "That was _so_ not fair," he protested.

She looked guilty, but she stuck to her guns. "Marina had to be told anyway. Would you rather have done it right in front of the girls?"

"You set that up earlier and rehearsed it just to get her on your side."

She flinched, and he felt that knife stab go home and knew he had hurt her. "I hadn't said anything to her about your plans before now. That wasn't scripted, Greg."

"Yeah, she just came up with all that on her own."

"Yes, she _did._ And yes, I kind of hoped she would go off on you, but only because I've already said it myself dozens of times, and I thought maybe having someone else come from a different angle would help. This _isn't_ going to work, Greg. You'll only make things much worse. You told me last summer when I was starting to damage them, and I'm returning that now. You haven't done it yet. So far, all the current problem is on me for telling them wrong about death, but that's about to change. And I said that through an ignorant mistake, but you aren't going to hurt them in ignorance. If you do this, you do it with multiple people warning you in advance it will be a disaster. You _are_ going to hurt them badly if you go through with this. They'll need professional help. _Look_ at them, Greg. They're terrified. You want to leave them the day after tomorrow and stay gone for five days? Do you really think they'll be over it by then? Even _telling _them we might leave them like that, even if you change your mind later, once you say it to them, we've undone all the progress and made everything worse."

He squirmed on the step. "You could stay, then. I'll go with Jensen and Wilson."

She shook her head. "I'm not leaving you in this. Besides, we belong _together_. This happened to us as a family Wednesday morning. We need to cope with it as a family, yes, on a toddler level with them, but not shutting them out completely. You _can't_ shut them out from this, Greg. It's too late. They were right there when it started."

He stood up stiffly, the cold gnawing into his leg, and stalked back inside. She followed. "I'm going to go out to get us a pizza for lunch," he announced. "I'll be back in an hour."

The girls both latched on like Velcro, the movie forgotten. "No!"

"I'll be back in an hour," he promised again. "Mama will be here, and Marina will be here, and I'll be right back. Look, see the clock on the wall. When this hand gets around to here, I'll be back. So you can watch it." Abby eyed the clock, at least following his hand as he pointed to it. Rachel ignored it.

"Not going to die, Daddy?" she asked.

"No, I'm not going to die. I'm just going out for pizza, and I'll be back in an hour. If you started another movie, I'd be back before it's over." He picked them up one at a time for a hug. "I'll be back. I promise." Then, setting them down, he turned and left, not even looking at Cuddy and Marina.

He was mad. Unfortunately, the roads demanded careful driving on last night's new snow, and mindful of his promise to the girls, he couldn't even make himself peel out satisfactorily. He had meant to go to PPTH for a while to check in, but instead, he drove to the park. Children were playing there, romping in the snow, enjoying the break from school. He sat in the car and stared at and through them. Families having fun together.

Damn Marina. And Cuddy, and Jensen, and everybody else who just didn't understand. He _couldn't_ take his daughters to the funeral and let them see . . . well, whatever was going to happen there. If he totally lost it, if he ruined it for everybody, at least they wouldn't have to witness that. Besides, they were just kids. They didn't need to see Blythe in her casket. It would give them nightmares.

Nightmares. John had been chasing him last night, House running and trying to escape, and John somehow in front of him at every turn, railing at him with predictions of funerals, laughing at him for having killed his own mother himself and fulfilling the threat without John having to lift a finger after all. House trembled again thinking of it.

He was shivering badly now, he realized. He restarted the car and turned the heater up, but it didn't help. His leg was starting to protest, too. He had wanted to get away from it all for just a little while, to be alone, which nobody had actually let him be since Wednesday morning when he found Blythe. But now that he finally was alone, the blank spot on the seat beside him seemed a canyon. The ghost of John was in the back, whispering promises in his ear, and he wished suddenly that Cuddy were with him, even if she was going to lecture him. At least she would be there.

Marina. Maybe they could take Marina - he hadn't thought of that. She could babysit, and the girls wouldn't even have to go to the funeral, could simply play back at the hotel. That would at least remove the funeral block, plus leaving them for five days. But there was still Thornton. _You can trust him_, Jensen had said. Could he trust him that much, not just with himself but his family? John laughed from the back seat.

House raised his hand to the gear shift. All at once, he wanted nothing more than to go home. Even if they were mad at him, even if Marina lectured him, he wanted to go home. He stared at his hand, realizing that it was shaking visibly. He had to steady himself, had to drive carefully, couldn't break that promise. The CD case caught his eye, the recordings of his grandfather, one of many copies he had made by now. He pushed the CD in and turned the volume up, and the piano concerto started. Dissonance. Resolution. Beauty. By the time he got home, he had stopped shaking. Up the front path, and he only remembered as he came in that he had forgotten to get a pizza.

Cuddy was standing in front of the clock, holding both girls, and they all turned, startled, at his entrance 15 minutes early. In the next minute, his women were all on him, locked in a fierce hug of relief, Cuddy as much as the girls. Finally, they broke apart. The girls were on the floor now, both attached to his good leg, and he looked down at them. Their eyes were still reddened and swollen. His daughters had been crying not too long ago, though the tears had stopped before he came in.

"You came back," Rachel said. "Like you said."

He sighed and looked helplessly at Cuddy as Marina watched from the sidelines. "Do you have any idea how much hassle it's going to be to pack everything?" he said. "And it's _you_ who's packing it all, not me."

Her kiss in response left him breathless, and John's voice, which followed him home albeit at a muted level underneath the stronger piano concerto, died unnoticed into silence during their embrace.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Happy New Year to all. Don't kill me for the ending here, but it's as far as I got on a day with plenty else in it, and subsequent scenes would have taken time I didn't have. More coming when I can, but the work server, which had been on its own holiday for hours, just came back up, so duty calls.

(H/C)

Sunday morning, Cuddy woke up half an hour ahead of the alarm clock, almost as if a mental bugler had sounded reveille. Her dreams had been of to-do lists, and she woke up with them right in the front of her mind and was already sorting items even as she opened her eyes, looking for that dreaded forgotten detail.

Packing and arrangements _had_ been a hassle, to put it mildly. They had never before taken anything beyond a day trip with the girls, which she had thought could be bad enough, but jumping from that into the intricacies of a 5-day trip including quite a bit of travel with two toddlers was like leaping from simple addition straight into calculus. Marina had been invaluable, helping her prioritize, pointing out things she hadn't thought of, deleting things she thought mattered that the nanny assured her weren't such a big deal after all. Marina's brisk competence in these uncharted waters was reassuring, and already, even before they had left the house, she had saved Cuddy a lot of stress. House hadn't even blinked when Cuddy suggested to him last night that they give the nanny a $5,000 bonus for her assistance on this trip.

Cuddy had changed the hotel reservations to get a suite for herself, House, Marina, and the girls, two bedrooms with a common room. She had also told House Saturday afternoon that Thornton was in the same hotel, not wanting to blindside him at the first encounter once they got there. Thomas would probably be in the hotel lobby waiting for them to check in, and while it wouldn't be the best timing, she couldn't blame him. He had been _so_ patient. Actually seeing his son again would be a reward long overdue. As predicted, House had protested, but when she eventually offered to change the group to a different hotel if he wanted, he had grumbled that it wasn't worth forfeiting the deposit and that Thornton wasn't that big a deal anyway.

The girls had continued to improve steadily in terms of their fear. Friday night, they had slept about half of the night in their own beds before coming in to join their parents, and last night, they had stayed in their beds the whole night. Cuddy checked the monitor now to make sure it was turned on, as if she hadn't checked it many times already in the night, but all was quiet. House and Cuddy had continued leaving them with Marina briefly but without the frantic push of before, and each time, it got better. The trip itself was helping, as the girls obviously considered this a grand adventure and couldn't wait to ride a plane and go somewhere a long way away. As long as the family would be together, they were excited about it.

Decreasing worry about them just left Cuddy more room to worry about House. She turned on the bedside lamp and looked over at him now. He was sound asleep still, artificially sound asleep. She wasn't sure what had happened Friday morning when he took off on his own, but it was more than just coming to a conclusion to take his daughters to Lexington after all. From that point, it had been _House_ who seemed to be desperately avoiding being alone. Even when she tried to give him a little space, he didn't want it. He also had completely given up resisting the sleeping pills, regardless of where the girls were spending the night. She was glad of that, but the abrupt switch from stubbornness into a sort of numb acceptance also worried her.

She had tried talking with him about Blythe a few times, and he always shut down instantly. He didn't want to talk; he just wanted to never be alone. He also had stopped pestering Wilson for details on treating Blythe's cancer posthumously, and any medical conversation he simply put off until more information at Wednesday's appointments. Even his reaction to the news of their hotel was more subdued than she would have liked. The most spark she had seen out of him in the last two days had been when he told her Friday not to tell Thornton the girls were coming, too. He wanted to watch Thornton's unscripted reaction when taken totally by surprise at the hotel. Outside of that moment, though, he seemed both more withdrawn and more desperate than before. It worried her. She was glad Jensen would be along with them.

Jensen. House had talked to him a while again last night but not very long, not as long as Cuddy wished he would talk to him, and he had still seemed detached when he came out of the bedroom. He had told Cuddy and Wilson both that as far as Marina and the girls were concerned, Thornton was to be just a family friend, nothing more. Cuddy wondered exactly how long that charade would last, at least with Marina. The nanny wasn't unobservant, and seeing those two side by side for several days for live comparison would write its own story no matter what words had been used.

Cuddy leaned over her husband now, lightly brushing her lips against his temple, then stood up and grabbed her robe. Yoga could yield to luggage this morning. Leaving House with Belle, she turned off the light, left the room quickly, and shut the bedroom door. Her first stop was the girls, and they were both still asleep. She wasted a good two minutes just standing there watching them. Then, scolding herself for the lost time, she hurried to the living room where the suitcases and carry-ons were all waiting in a line. One more inventory wouldn't hurt.

Marina was the first to arrive while Cuddy was feeding the girls breakfast, and she marched into the kitchen after putting down her own suitcase in the living room. "You need to stop fussing and sit down and eat yourself. A good breakfast is important before a trip."

"I'll eat with him in a little bit. I hadn't woken him up yet."

"Good morning," Rachel said. "We're going on a plane!"

"That's right." Marina swooped in and gave her a kiss, then Abby. "We're all taking a trip on a plane, and after we get there, we're going to say goodbye to your grandmother."

Cuddy winced. Marina, having won the larger point, had been working on House in the remaining two days to try to convince him to take the girls to the funeral. She had also been talking to the girls about death, which really seemed to be helping them, but Cuddy was starting to wonder if she was laying it on a little thick. Poor House took her new mission without response, not disagreeing, just sitting there mute. "Marina," she said softly. Marina looked up from her position next to Abby's high chair. "Lay off a little on the f-u-n-e-r-a-l." Thanks to the nanny, Rachel and Abby now both knew that word, and Cuddy didn't want their input right now.

Marina shook her head. "It's a _good_ thing. You all need this."

"I agree with you, but there's . . . more going on than you know. Just let him decide, okay? Or at least, be gentle."

Marina considered this. "Is this more of what that b-a-s-t-a-r-d did to him?"

"Yes."

"Then he needs to learn what they _really_ are."

"I know that, but don't push him too hard on this. I think we'll wind up all going to the f-u-n-e-r-a-l anyway, but ease up a little."

Rachel and Abby had been trying to follow this conversation, and now Rachel smacked one hand down in frustration. "Don't spell!" she protested.

That broke the mood, both Marina and Cuddy laughing. Spelling wasn't going to be an option for too much longer, Cuddy knew. Rachel knew a couple of letters from following fingers while reading books, and frighteningly, Abby at two already knew some herself.

Cuddy looked at her watch. "I'll go wake him up. Be back in a minute, girls." They watched her leave, but the urgency of following her to the last glimpse was wearing off. They were going to be all right. Cuddy gave a sigh of relief as she returned to the bedroom. At least her error had been a minor one. Patterson had been reassuring her again on that subject, but it was nice to see results.

Now down to the more difficult subject of House, and Patterson hadn't had as much definite to say about him, simply advising her to be there and not push. He was going to have to go through this his own way. Cuddy closed the bedroom door behind her and walked across to the bed, and her kiss that time wasn't just across his temple. Slowly, he climbed up from dreamless sleep and started to respond. She could feel the exact moment when he remembered they were leaving for the funeral today, and he retreated, physically and even more mentally.

She didn't insist on saying good morning to him, not this morning. "Marina's here, and the girls are just finishing breakfast in the kitchen."

"Did they stay in their room last night?" He sat up gingerly and started working his leg.

"Yes, they did. Got through the whole night without any problems, even when they woke up once. They just wanted to know we were here. It's getting better all the time." She thought of massaging his leg, helping get the morning kinks out, but she changed course partway, simply sitting on the bed beside him and pulling him over against her, careful not to hurt his leg but letting him feel her solid presence. He leaned into her chest, closing his eyes again, and she could feel the crackling tension in him. He still didn't say anything, and he still didn't cry. She was glad he wasn't pushing her away, but she wished he would allow himself to feel this instead of trying so hard to stuff it down. She knew the breakdown would come, sooner or later, but no harm in her wishing for sooner.

He pulled away after a moment, and his voice was as distant as it had been for the last two days, as distant as his grip around her had been desperate. "You'd better get back in there before they start to wonder."

"All right." She knew he hated an audience when he got out of bed. "See you in a few minutes." One more brief kiss, a squeeze of his arm, and she left him, resolving to come back in five minutes even if just on some made-up question through the door, just to let him feel that she was there. She didn't have to; he made it to the kitchen in four minutes, obviously having pushed the process and with his leg offended at his hurry. He and Cuddy started eating breakfast, and Marina at least didn't bring up the funeral.

(H/C)

Everyone but Marina was somewhat ruffled by the time they finally made it to the airport. Jensen had arrived at their house on time only because his original target departure time from Middletown had had leeway worked in. Cathy had apparently chosen that morning to make her last stand arguing for skipping school and going along to the funeral herself to support House. Wilson was a little late, having had an unexpectedly hard time leaving Sandra and Daniel, and while he had been looking forward to meeting and interrogating Thornton, his thoughts were stuck back at home as the convoy pulled out.

Rachel had made her own last stand arguing for taking Belle and took a lot of reassurance that Sandra would tend to the cat adequately. The girls had then insisted that they wanted Thornton's presents as trip toys on the plane, and both threw a fit when told this would only be allowed after removing the batteries to silence them. Cuddy dug in on that one for the sake of the sanity of the other passengers, remembering countless flights herself over the years where as much as she had always wanted a child, she could have cheerfully throttled one. When the dust settled, Thornton's toys remained packed for Lexington, leaving some quieter options in the carry-ons, including Jensen's Siamese kitten which only purred as Rachel's choice and the stuffed music notes for Abby.

Through all the final preparations, House was progressively dragging his feet, leaving Cuddy struggling between sympathy and schedule impatience. Two cars were required to haul everybody, and the accumulated luggage was enough to make Cuddy wonder if they should have hired sherpas.

Arriving at the airport early, though not nearly as early as she had intended, they unloaded luggage and all passengers except Wilson and Jensen at the loading zone. Those two then went off to stash the two cars in long-term parking, and House was obviously thinking of their whole, uncrippled legs on this task as they pulled away.

Right then, a helpful airline employee appeared to volunteer assistance with the luggage, and House took it as a cripple statement and snapped at him. Cuddy touched her husband's arm gently, trying to soothe him, and he finally realized that she had to struggle to free a hand to do even that, what with juggling girls, car seats for the flight and the rental car once they got there, and carry-ons. Which, of course, only reminded him that he couldn't carry a full share of things himself. Cuddy passed Abby off to him to lighten her load while Marina sweetly thanked the employee, and the suitcases were finally loaded on a cart.

On to check-in, after which they grabbed lunch at an airport restaurant (Cuddy had refused to stop earlier, with images of their luggage not making it on in time dancing in her head). Then through security, where at least the workers let House keep his cane this time after inspecting it. Cuddy thought he might have snapped at the humiliation of a wheelchair on top of everything else so far today, and while she wanted him to lose control, in the middle of the airport wasn't quite what she had in mind. Finally, they were in the waiting area, taking up an entire row of seats. They drew everyone's attention, of course; they had to look like a traveling three-ring circus. Several other passengers had comments on Rachel and Abby. House sat silently next to Cuddy and was so painfully aware of his cane that that fact itself drew attention to it. The girls, of course, were thrilled, on a great adventure, and chattered about the promised plane. Wilson sat thinking of Sandra and Daniel, and Jensen subtly watched House.

An older couple entered the waiting area, and House snapped to attention. It was the two octogenarians who had been talking to Blythe just over a week ago as they got off the plane in this same airport. The woman still had all the extremity swelling of congestive heart failure, and the man's breathing still sounded like an advertisement for the bad consequences of long-term smoking. They slowly creaked and wheezed their way into the seating area, aged, visibly unhealthy, and still alive. Blythe had looked in _far_ better shape than either of these just a week ago, yet here they were returning home while she had made her flight back in a box down in cargo.

House lurched to his feet. "Gotta take a leak," he said and limped toward the restroom. Jensen and Wilson both stood right after him, Jensen responding slightly faster, and he motioned Wilson back. The restroom had a few other people in it, and there wasn't really much chance for talk, but Jensen didn't miss House's relieved look as he entered just behind him. House had obviously stopped wanting to be alone just a few strides after taking off from the group, and Jensen filed that fact for later. This wasn't the time, but he was wondering after watching this morning if House was actively hearing John's voice again when he didn't have his people there to help hold it at bay. House walked quietly back exactly beside the psychiatrist as they left the restroom, and the two of them stopped just before reaching the seats, the other passengers flowing around them like a river around a rock. House was once again staring at the older couple.

"Do you know them?" Jensen asked softly.

"They arrived on Mom's flight," House stated. "They were talking to her. And they're . . ." He trailed off. Jensen put a hand on his arm, and House didn't pull away.

Just then, early boarding was called, including those passengers with babies and toddlers, as well as the crippled. They boarded, and House was glad to see once the plane filled that that couple was seated well behind them. At least he wouldn't have to look at them so obviously alive throughout the flight.

The group of seven was split among a few rows directly behind each other. Rachel and Abby both got window seats, and some debate ensued about which kid got which parent next to them (both wanted both of them), but Wilson's compromise of having House and Cuddy switch off partway was accepted. Everyone was finally settled, luggage stowed, and the plane took off. The girls were enthralled, looking out the window, eyes wide as they felt the power of the great engines.

Shortly after the plane had turned and settled onto its course, the speaker crackled into life. "Hello, ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking. First of all, I'd like to wish everybody a happy New Year!"

House rolled his eyes. He'd totally forgotten this was New Year's Day, as he had progressed through life trying his best to ignore holidays, especially false ones about a new start and resolutions that meant nothing because nobody ever kept them. He remembered Wilson telling him once that you should do on New Year's what you wanted to do throughout the year. So here he was going to his mother's funeral. Yeah, definitely ought to write that one down for reruns. The captain was rambling on, full of good wishes and promises of a perfect flight with ideal weather to start their new year off right. "What a crock of . . . s-h-i-t," he amended at the last minute, looking at Abby next to him. A woman across the aisle heard him and gave him a reproachful look, and he glared at her until she turned away with a huff and buried her nose in her book, obviously concluding that she had _that_ sort of person sharing her flight.

The flight did go fairly smoothly, Marina said later, but to Cuddy, it was an endless stream of wanting this toy or that toy or having another question. The two parents traded girls a few times in flight, and while Rachel and Abby were active, they were kept occupied pretty quietly and weren't disruptive to the other passengers, at least. Afternoon nap time and adrenaline wearing off kicked in simultaneously most of the way through the flight, and they were sound asleep as the plane landed in Lexington.

The group by general unspoken agreement waited for the traffic to clear this time, knowing their complicated exit would take a while. Finally, as the other passengers thinned out, House stiffly pried himself out of his seat. Someone passing had bumped into him slightly at the last switch-off, pushing on by in the aisle when he hadn't quite been fully into the row yet. At least, it would have been a slight bump to anyone with normal, unimpaired balance. For him, there really wasn't such a thing as a slight bump. It had thrown his weight onto the right side, and with that plus the trip plus general tension, his leg was now giving him hell. Cuddy had noticed; she was looking worried again and trying not to be obvious about it. The sleeping girls were extracted and handed off to able-bodied adults, Cuddy with Rachel and Marina with Abby, and Jensen and Wilson took command of the two car seats and the carry-ons. House had all he could do to carry himself as they exited the plane.

"At least there's no more travel tonight except to make it from here to the hotel," Wilson said, trying to provide a pep talk as they made their encumbered exit through the plane door. "We've survived the trip." They slowly progressed through the tunnel and out into the waiting area.

There in front of the plastic rows of seats, eagerly watching the tunnel, stood Thomas Thornton.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: The server is down again this morning. Definitely hope this isn't how the whole year is going to go. But it means a little more for you while I wait, so enjoy, and remember, reviews are payment, even if that currency isn't accepted at Wal-Mart. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

(H/C)

Thornton had already had a very difficult day.

Holidays in general reminded him especially of Emily, although he had at least made it past the "first whatever without her" milestones and was now working his way through the "second one without her" series. But New Year's had another significance for him. It was on New Year's Day that Tim, his brother, had been killed in Korea all those years ago. With his driving need to know details, Thomas had looked up other Marines from his brother's unit once he joined himself and had asked for the full story, part of him hoping that his brother had died quickly and easily, the other part wishing there had been time for some final message to be passed back to his relatives that had somehow simply missed communication. The results were negative on both fronts: Tim had not died quickly nor easily, but with a head injury, he had not been coherent enough to be sending final thoughts to his siblings. He had died terrified, disoriented, and in pain.

Tim's had been the third funeral of Thomas' life. The first had been for his grandfather when he was five and was a nice, quiet service, a good celebration of his life. His grandfather had been living with them, and his parents had talked to him about the death. He had missed Grandpa, but he had dealt with it pretty well, all of them grieving and moving on together as a family. The second funeral, of course, had been the double for his parents when he was eleven and had been far different for Thomas, between shock at the deaths and anger at his uncle already taking over and starting to sell everything even that quickly.

Then Tim, that loss coming during the resentful teenaged years with his uncle. Thomas had been the one to get the flag (his sister, Ellie, hadn't wanted it), and he had kept it in his room, even though it was a poor substitute for a brother. He still had it in storage even now. His uncle and aunt had tried to be supportive, at least for a while, but there was too much history behind them by then, too many years of the extra children being defined in terms of a financial bottom line and poor preparation on their parents' part that his uncle had dutifully stepped in to straighten out. Their offer of acting like family at Tim's death was too little, too late for Thomas and Ellie, and besides, the two siblings suspected correctly that it was only temporary and that the old attitude would return soon enough.

But New Year's after that had always reminded him of his brother. Then Emily had entered his life, and from that point, even though the memory of Tim was still there, there was also a positive balancing it out. Emily had loved New Year's, the whole process of counting it down, kissing each other at the stroke of midnight. She would always state within a few minutes her own wish for the coming year: "I hope this year, more people are lucky enough to find for themselves what we have together."

The last New Year's of her life, two years ago, she had still said that but not just after midnight. She had been asleep at midnight, drugged against the ever-increasing pain from the cancer gnawing into her, and had missed their custom for the first time in their marriage except for the few military years when he happened to be away on that day. He had been awake alone that night, and he still kissed her at 12:00 and then had broken down crying, truly seeing the illness carved deeply into her face. That had been the day that Thomas finally accepted what he had already known for a few months and just hadn't let himself admit. She was not going to get well, the treatments were not going to be a cure, and she was dying. From that point, his obsession had switched from curing her to caring for her, and in that one at least, he was successful. He had been there all the way, clear to her death.

Last year, the first one without her, had been one of the hardest days in all of it. This year, he at least had Greg to look forward to, their slowly growing relationship, Lisa's prediction that maybe by Christmas, they could all be together as a family. He stayed awake until midnight and went to sleep firmly holding his thoughts on hope for the future - and then he dreamed that their flight today had crashed, as his parents' plane had crashed, and that Greg and Lisa had been killed, dying like Tim on New Year's Day, and that he had to plan _their_ funeral. He woke up in a cold sweat, alone.

For the rest of the day, reason had warred with emotion as he tried to reassure himself that it had only been a nightmare. He wasn't going to lose Greg, not like everybody else in his life. Not yet, at least, not without really knowing him. That would be _too_ cruel. Surely fate couldn't pull that on him. But finding distractions today while waiting was difficult. It being Sunday and a holiday besides, much of the world was closed. The senior center where Blythe's friends gathered was shut today, the trail ride where he had gone for the last two days was closed. He took a drive, looking at horse farms with their miles of flawless fences, telling himself that Greg would arrive safe and sound at the hotel later this afternoon. But eventually, he found himself at the airport.

It hadn't been planned. He sat there in the parking lot sorting through things in his mind for several minutes before he finally went in. But what was wrong with it, after all? Lisa had called briefly last night, sounding very tense in final trip preparations, but she had told him that Greg now knew they would be at the same hotel and hadn't insisted on changing to another. That was encouraging, confirmation of her statement that deep down, he actually _wanted_ to see Thomas. She had also mentioned that Wilson was coming with them, which made sense to Thomas, as Wilson was obviously a close friend and had been at John's funeral, too. Wilson knew who he was, had been the first to outright identify him that day in the courtroom back in the summer.

Thomas had no intentions of playing family member and putting on a public scene, but friends met flights, too. Everyone coming knew who he was and knew they would be seeing him extensively on this trip. He just would meet the plane as a friend and see his son coming off, and the nightmare then would be able to fade in the light of the reality that the plane had landed safely and that Greg and Lisa were fine.

Lisa hadn't specified the flight, but it wasn't as large an airport as the big international one at Louisville, and there weren't dozens of options. Inquiries quickly revealed the most likely candidate, a plane in mid afternoon from Newark, and he went to that gate to wait, breathing a sigh of relief as it was announced that they had landed. Thomas stood up. As good an actor as he was, he was having trouble staying nonchalant right now, but again, they all knew who he was anyway. The worst that could happen was that Greg would snap at him, which probably would have happened at the hotel later, too. He was just moving the experience up about an hour.

They were very late deplaning, and he had almost decided as the minutes stretched out that he was wrong about the flight. But the crew hadn't exited yet. He inched forward, watching the tunnel.

Finally, here they came. Thomas spotted his son first, having been so focused on the prospect of seeing him, and his heart jumped, but in the next second, the world seemed to pause as the whole scene registered.

They had the girls with them. His granddaughters. His _granddaughters_.

They were asleep. Rachel, sturdy with dark hair. Abby, smaller with the exact shade of chestnut brown hair that Greg had had before it started to gray. Their faces were buried in the shoulders of the adults as they napped. He drank in the sight, absorbing every detail. There was a Hispanic woman, too, who was a total stranger - the nanny to help with the girls, maybe? She was carrying Abby. Also Jensen, the psychiatrist, whom he had met last summer. He hadn't been expecting him, either, but Jensen, too, knew who he was. Wilson, Greg's best friend. Lisa, looking startled, worried, stressed, and guilty all at once.

And Greg. His son looked mad first of all, but beneath that, the pain was visible. Not just the physical pain, though that was obviously significant at the moment, but the stress of the whole last week. Thomas' heart broke looking at him.

Greg had jolted to a startled stop in that first moment, with everybody except the nanny doing likewise just a second later. She alone had no reaction, simply walking on forward with Abby and only pausing when Thomas didn't move out of the way. His granddaughter, just a few feet away. He could have reached out and touched her. He didn't, though he longed to. He knew that he didn't yet have the right.

Greg was the first to speak. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"I didn't expect. . ." Thomas started, then trailed off, looking at the nanny again.

Lisa jumped into the middle of things. "Marina, this is Thomas Thornton. He's an old family friend of Blythe's." Marina looked from Thomas to Greg, curious at the thickness of the atmosphere. Lisa looked at her firmly, and the nanny finally tossed her head with an "all right, I'm minding my own business - at least for now" air. "Thomas, this is Marina, our nanny. She came along to help us with the girls on the trip."

"Nice to meet you," Marina said.

"And you," Thornton replied.

"I think you already know who everybody else is," Lisa went on. "It will be nice to have somebody else to help with the luggage. We have enough for a whole town, I think." She was nervous, and it showed.

Greg flinched, looking at Thomas' long legs, and then his eyes dropped to his cane. Lisa cringed, not having meant that remark like he obviously took it, and Jensen reached out to touch Greg briefly on the arm as they started off. Thomas envied him for being able to and even more as Greg didn't withdraw from it, though Jensen quickly moved on himself. The group slowly lurched into motion. They already were carrying so much - all except for Greg, of course - that Thomas wondered how they had ever managed to get it all checked in up in Newark. Once the several suitcases had joined it all at the baggage claim, there really was more luggage than hands, even if Greg had been able to help. "I'll get a cart," Thomas offered. He found one not too far away, and they piled it all on.

"I've got a car already rented," Lisa said. "I asked for a van to fit everybody." She was eying the luggage dubiously. A van might indeed seat seven for driving around town, but all of this baggage on top of it would make it tight quarters on the drive to the hotel.

"I have a car," Thomas offered. "I'd be glad to take a few. Or the luggage, if you'd rather."

"Thanks. I'll ride with you." Wilson accepted immediately.

"So will I," Jensen added. Wilson's eagerness deflated a little, and Thomas would have been amused if he hadn't been so tense. He couldn't blame Greg's friend for being curious about him.

"The girls will go with _us_," Greg snapped. Marina looked at him oddly again, and he visibly tried to look like everything was routine. It was a dismal failure.

"Great, that's settled. We can split up the suitcases a little, too, and everybody will be more comfortable. Come on, let's get the van." Lisa started for the car rental desk, and they walked - or limped - along in silence other than the creaking wheels on the luggage cart.

Rachel woke up when Lisa had to shift her in order to fill out the paperwork, and she looked around, wide eyed. "No more plane!"

"No, no more plane," Marina told her. "The plane landed."

"Yay!" Rachel squirmed, wanting down, and Lisa tightened up her grip.

"Not right now, Rachel. At the hotel, okay? The airport is too big to run around in."

Rachel was about to argue when she suddenly noticed the addition to the group. She looked at Thomas curiously. "Hi!"

There was a lump in his throat as he replied. "Hi, Rachel."

"Who are you?"

Greg stiffened up and glared at him, but Thomas really had no intentions of rocking the boat. This was more than he had dreamed of today, even if limited. "I'm a friend. I know your parents, and I knew your grandmother."

"What's your name?"

"Thomas."

Lisa signed at the bottom of the page and accepted the keys. "All right, now who takes what luggage?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Lisa, we're only going a few miles, not separating for a week. What the . . . h-e-l-l difference does it make?"

Rachel shook her dark curls. "Don't spell!" Thomas grinned.

Jensen moved over to the cart and selected the three largest and heaviest suitcases, leaving the car seats and the rest of the luggage on the cart for the others. "Here. We'll take these with us, and we'll see you at the hotel. How's that?" Lisa gave him a grateful look. Wilson, Jensen, and Thomas each grabbed a suitcase and started for the door.

"Bye, Thomas!" Rachel called.

He couldn't resist turning around, even though Greg was scowling when he did. "Bye, Rachel."

The three men went on outside, the others lagging a good distance behind them. The fresh air hit them as they walked across to the short-term parking. Clean, crisp, and cool, but it suddenly seemed refreshing. Not bad weather, really, for New Year's.

"It's warmer here than in Jersey," Wilson noted.

They reached Thomas' rental car and put the suitcases in the trunk, then loaded up, Wilson claiming shotgun. The questions started before Thomas had even cleared the parking gate. "So you were a Marine, too."

"Yes. I was in for my 20. I was only stationed with John once after boot camp, though. I just visited every year or two, wasn't there all the time." He couldn't help slipping in his defense, inadequate as it was. If Wilson was in a questioning mood, though, it was a good opportunity for some quid pro quo. "I didn't realize the girls were coming along. In fact, Greg had told me specifically they _weren't_ coming."

"That was the original plan, but they were pretty upset about Blythe's death," Jensen stated.

"Were they close to Blythe?" Thomas couldn't quite keep the hurt out of his tone there.

"Not really," Wilson said. "It wasn't her specifically, but they got scared about the idea of death. They were afraid their parents were going to die and just go away forever, too."

Thomas winced, sympathizing. "Are they doing better?"

"Yes. They're settling down pretty quickly as long as they know everybody's okay. So tell me about your family."

Jensen stepped in from the back seat. "James, he probably doesn't feel like a hundred questions right now."

Thomas smiled, even though the thought of his family automatically carried the memory of all the funerals, as it had for the last few days. "It's all right. Of course he'd be curious about me. He's a good friend of Greg's after all, even came with him to John's funeral to support him."

Wilson's curiosity popped like a balloon, and he settled back into the seat, weighed down by _something_. Thomas gave him a look, wondering at the abrupt change in atmosphere, but he did not ask about it, though he also didn't miss Wilson's look of relief as the subject changed. "I really didn't mean to catch Greg off guard there. I thought everybody coming would already know me, and I just wanted to see him again."

"He had a rough flight," Jensen said. "The pain is on top of everything right now. Give it time."

Give it time, the motto of the last six months and one he was getting tired of reciting to himself. Thomas really couldn't complain, though. Today had unexpectedly been a quantum leap forward. His granddaughters. He replayed every detail, savoring them, looking forward to adding more. Rachel's curls. The shade of Abby's hair. Rachel's voice and curiosity. Wilson was quiet for the moment, and the remaining short miles to the hotel passed in silence.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Short update. Take 'em as you can. Next up, Wilson and Jensen, and depending on chapter breaks, either in that same chapter or in the next, the adults will have dinner together, which will be _very_ interesting. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

"Thank you." Cuddy finally set down the squirming Rachel and fished out a tip for the bellboy who had helped bring up everything that went in their suite, which due to the girls was the majority of it. She closed the door behind him and looked at the pile of luggage briefly, mentally starting an unpacking agenda, but then turned on to face her husband. First things first.

House had more or less collapsed on a couch, and Rachel and Abby, who had woken up in the elevator, ran straight to him once freed and climbed up, though very carefully. "Take med'cine, Daddy," Rachel told him.

"Good idea, Rachel." Cuddy deposited the carry-on that had half a pharmacy in it on the couch beside him and headed toward one of the bedrooms. "I'll run a hot bath, Greg."

He sighed, but he was hurting too much to protest. Dignity had lost to pain several minutes ago. He opened the bag and fished out Flexeril, noting again just how much Cuddy had brought along, a reminder of just how much he could need at times. Still, she and Wilson both put the Boy Scouts to shame on always being prepared. Adding an extra Vicodin from his pocket, he gulped the pills down. Marina started separating the girls' luggage from the other, but she kept giving him worried glances, too. Damn Thornton, showing up in the airport there and catching him off guard. Now he had the nanny wondering who that man was on top of everything else.

That wasn't how the first meeting was supposed to go. He had intended to surprise Thornton with them at the hotel this evening, hopefully after they were asleep, an encounter that House set up and had control of from the beginning. He had wanted to watch the other man's reaction. His first thought at the airport had been that Cuddy had prepared Thornton after all, not just mentioning the girls but specifying the flight and setting up the meeting. That thought had been fleeting, though; his father and Cuddy were obviously both shocked. That couldn't have been scripted. House had been busy fighting down the anger that was his first reaction to Thornton whenever he hadn't had a chance to get a firm grip on himself ahead of time, but within just a second, he had also been analyzing the other man's expression, falling back on part of his original plan. He had wanted to observe Thornton's first unshielded thoughts at the sight of the girls. He had seen them, all right, but those thoughts just left him more confused.

After brief surprise, House had expected swift progression to triumph, satisfaction at having the funeral-arranging scheme work after all, and an immediate attempt by his father to stake his claim and move straight into the family and set up house there. House would have known then that he was right, that Thornton was a sneaky operator who couldn't be trusted and always had ulterior motives to spare, and he would have been justified in totally shutting him out once they were past this trip. The girls were young; whatever Thornton said, which would be as little as House could manage to have them in earshot for, they would forget about it quickly.

Instead, he had seen total shock, followed by wistful sadness, then almost _hunger_. Even when Marina had walked right up to Thornton before she realized anything was going on and he had had the chance to reach out for Abby, he didn't, only looking with a longing that was painful. And it hadn't just been at the granddaughters, either; House himself had drawn an identical look, even after the girls had been noticed so that Thornton had better things to look at. Was Thornton _that_ good an actor? He had also been the first to restrain his reaction and try to keep up a front for the nanny, doing a much better job on that than either Cuddy or House himself had. There was no expected, "Ha, I _knew_ I'd win on this; gotcha," moment. Yes, he had talked to Rachel later, but only after she initiated it and had not tried to push the limits, even when he could have.

What were his motives here? Was it really what it looked like, no hidden game? Could he actually be trusted, as Jensen said? So much to risk, though. House wasn't staking only himself on the answer but his daughters as well.

Cuddy came back from the bathroom. "Come on, Greg. Play with Marina for a while, okay, girls? We'll just be in the other room."

They shifted off as he started his laborious climb out of the couch. Marina had just picked up the toys suitcase, and Rachel abruptly recognized it as the repository that had swallowed her stuffed horse this morning back in Princeton. "Horsey!" She bounded over, and Marina smiled and stopped to open it en route to the other bedroom, extracting the horse and handing it over. Rachel sent the reunion whinnies ringing through the room.

Abby was a little slower to leave, stopping in front of the couch and looking back at her father. "You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Abby. Go ahead and play." She went on, and he finally made it to his feet. Cuddy had been watching anxiously but at least hadn't reached out to help. He slowly limped into the bedroom and then the bathroom and waited until she had shut the door firmly before turning on her.

"You _told_ him." He knew she hadn't, but he felt like lashing out at something, and she was available and safe.

"I didn't, Greg. I respected your wishes with the girls." She was glad that Thornton _didn't_ have a heart condition, though. "As for the airport, all I said was that we were coming in this afternoon. He must have worked out the flight himself."

"Why would he go to all that trouble if he didn't know about them?"

She shook her head. "He just wanted to see _you_. Moving it up an hour or two was worth finding out the flight." She reached over and switched off the faucets on the hot tub in the large, luxurious bathroom. "Go ahead and get in, Greg. It will help."

He slowly started to undress. "And to answer the question you don't want to outright ask the poor cripple, _yes_, I took Flexeril."

She didn't rise to the bait of his annoyance, but she snapped to attention a moment later. "Flexeril. I need to get that meds bag off the couch. Back in a minute." She returned to the large main room and retrieved the carry-on pharmacy. He had rezipped it and snapped the lock back; they had chosen that bag because it had a small padlock on it. Not that the girls showed any tendency to rustle in his meds, and they knew why he took them. Still, it didn't hurt to be careful, especially with the powerful guns in there, including morphine and syringes.

The girls were happily playing with Thornton's toys and exploring the new environment under Marina's watchful eye, and they looked up to notice their mother but without the desperateness of a few days ago. The nanny came over to Cuddy and spoke softly. "That man at the airport _bothers_ him. Is everything all right?"

Cuddy sighed. This secret wasn't going to last any time at all, not with Marina. She couldn't help it, though; she was responding not to Thornton but to _House_, and House confronted unexpectedly with Thornton reacted like he never had to anything else. Marina, knowing him, had realized this was a whole new level. Even Cuddy and Wilson with their decades of experience had known at once in the courtroom last summer when House first spotted his father from the stand that whatever he was reacting to, it touched him more deeply than anything they had ever seen. "It's okay, Marina. Thomas is an old family friend, like I said, and Greg is just hurting from the flight. Everything will be fine."

Marina gave her a dubious look. _Yep, this cat is going to jump out of the bag pretty quick,_ Cuddy thought.

At that moment, House called her, and she hurried back through the bedroom, putting the meds bag down on the bed, and then into the bathroom. He had gotten in the water but was sitting straight upright and looking as tense as if he suspected there might be hidden sharks swimming in it. "What _took_ you so long?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry." She leaned over to give him a kiss along with the words, then started to undress herself. He was still annoyed, but the fear had started to diminish the instant she walked in the door. What was wrong with him since Friday morning that he was afraid to be left alone? She settled down into the water next to him, and he started to relax. They had had a hot soak Saturday afternoon in their own tub as a family activity, reclaiming it after Blythe's death, and that had seemed to help. Now, she watched the additional pain lines slowly move out of his face, and she didn't speak until he seemed just on edge in general, no longer also fighting the monster biting into his leg. "Greg," she said after a moment. He looked over at her, already retreating. "Are you hearing John's voice again?"

All the walls were being constructed at a rapid rate. "John is dead."

"Yes. And in hell. You beat him." He didn't respond. "I just wondered. If you want to talk, I'm here, okay?"

"Believe it or not, I'd noticed. Kind of hard to miss you, hovering like you have been." He _wanted _the hovering, though, as much as he didn't want to talk. It worried her.

They sat there in the swirling hot water a long time, letting it wash away the travel aches. Cuddy hadn't realized how much _her_ shoulders were tense until she settled back and surrendered them. "We don't have to do anything else tonight," she offered. "Don't even have to leave the room. We can order room service instead of going down to the dining room later."

He considered, the wheels spinning. She could almost hear him picking his words, weighing each for value as if they were built of Scrabble tiles. "We need to try leaving the girls for a while here, and downstairs is close enough we can come right back if needed. Besides, Wilson would go anyway, and they'd be talking."

She hid her smile. So hard for him to simply admit that he wanted to see his father. "Okay. We can get room service for the girls and Marina, and then we'll go down once they're asleep. We'll be sure to tell them we're going downstairs, though, just in case they wake up later."

"Yeah." He was silent for another few minutes. "Lisa?" he asked suddenly.

"What is it, Greg?"

He leaned over quickly in the water, his leg loosened up enough by now to let him move more easily, and seized her, holding on desperately tightly, no passion at the moment, just unspeakable need. She wrapped her own arms around him just as tightly, holding him. She could feel him trembling now in spite of the hot water, but he did not talk, and still, he didn't cry.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: Short update written down late last night. Hopefully more Monday, but I have no more time now. I'm off on Sunday rounds and to Mom. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Wilson hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. He had not been prepared for the homesickness. Plenty of times through the years, even when in a steady relationship, he had been away for a few days for conferences and such, and while he had missed his partner, it had never hit him like this. He'd actually started missing Sandra and Daniel even before leaving this morning and had wished briefly he could back out and just stay home.

Home. He was thinking of it as home. In all the years, from wife to house to hotel, he had never really felt that a place or a family was a true home, not like this. But she and Daniel had become home.

There were other things weighing on him at the moment, too, right along with missing his family. Thornton's unintentional stab in the car had been an unwelcome reminder. While he was interested in meeting House's father and planned to mine those encounters for as many details as he could, he also still felt guilty about John's funeral. Plus he was concerned about House as a friend, of course; the diagnostician was clearly shutting down on them and refusing to fully feel Blythe's death. The last two days of lack of interest in treatment of the cancer were as worrying as the obsession that came before. Wilson hoped he and Cuddy and Jensen would be enough to help House through this.

But House _had_ given in on the girls, surprising Wilson. Not that he didn't think it was the right decision. Having been there at their initial freak-out Wednesday afternoon, where everything he and Sandra tried to say or do wasn't enough, he _knew_ bringing the girls along was the right decision. They had been utterly terrified. They needed this trip, or at least didn't need to be left behind. He just hadn't expected House with all his stubborn up to suddenly cave on that.

Concern, guilt, curiosity, and homesickness. An unsettling mixture indeed.

"Talk to you later. I love you. Bye." Jensen, across the room in an armchair, finished his own we've-arrived conversation. Wilson studied him as he stood up, abruptly crystallizing something else that had been nibbling at the background of his thoughts all day. Jensen seemed off somehow himself. The difference was subtle, but the oncologist had known him almost as long as House had, after all.

Well, why not just ask him? Jensen was like House in some ways, but conversation with him was much less like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. "Are you all right?" Wilson asked. "You haven't quite seemed like yourself all day."

Jensen gave him a smile. "I will be. Thanks, James. This whole situation with his mother just hit me hard, but I'm working through it."

"I still don't know any more than the Cliff's Notes version of what happened last week before her death."

"You'll need to find out more details from him, _if_ he chooses to tell you. I can't expand on it." Even troubled, Jensen could still be annoying about confidentiality.

"But you were leading the sessions," Wilson guessed. Jensen sighed and nodded. "Just from what I do know, it was a few hours after the last one before everybody went to bed, though, and she seemed fine."

"Yes, she did. If she was having symptoms at that point, she was deliberately hiding them from us."

"From what House has said, she was deliberately going against her doctor's advice, too."

"Yes. She definitely _didn't_ tell us that." The psychiatrist wandered restlessly across the room. It wasn't a multiroom suite like Cuddy had reserved for herself and House with the girls and Marina, but it was large and comfortable, even with the two beds. "If what I did contributed to her death, which I don't know and which may not be true, it certainly wasn't the only factor. She takes a good share of responsibility herself, and there's no doubt on that part."

Wilson nodded. "I wish House could see it that way."

"Hopefully he will eventually." In his slow circuit of the room, not actually pacing but just in motion, Jensen turned at the bathroom and headed back toward Wilson. "Is everything all right at home, James? You seem a little off yourself."

"They're fine. I just didn't expect to miss them this much. I've been away before, with the others, and I . . . well, I missed the sex, yeah, but having a few days away was an interesting break and change of pace, too. Not like this."

"It's a different world when you finally start to become a family with somebody." He paused and then gave a few more details on the part he could, unspoken salute to Wilson's concern for him. "I'm missing home, too, but I'm also a little worried. You know I had a lot of problems with putting work above them in the past, and I'm just hoping they keep seeing the difference here. It was Melissa who encouraged me to come to the funeral, even before Dr. House asked me. Things have changed, but I still remember what the old times were like. I don't ever want to wind up there again."

"Now if we were actually having a session and I said that, you'd give me some self-awareness spiel and say that the very fact that I was worrying about it and acknowledging my old mistakes showed how much I'd grown since then and was less likely to repeat them."

Jensen smiled again, and Wilson saw the gratitude in the psychiatrist's brown eyes. "I probably would. I'd be right, too. Hard to flip the psychiatry on yourself at times, no matter how well you know it with others."

Wilson sighed. "Speaking of repeating old mistakes, I hope _I'm _not going to do something stupid here. The last time I was off in a hotel away from her didn't work out that well."

"Are you tempted to go down to the bar and meet other women?"

Wilson actually looked disgusted at the idea. "No! I don't want anybody else. That was stupid, and besides that, it was wrong."

"So plug in what you just said to me. I think you're safe enough this week, James. Of course, if you do happen to start wanting a drink or worse, which I don't think you will, try to find some company instead of taking off on your own. There are plenty of your people around."

"Right. There's even Thornton, if I got desperate." He paused at Jensen's expression. The other man looked like he was trying not to laugh. "So I'm curious! Wouldn't you be? Little dribbles of information crumb by crumb for months, and suddenly, I can actually talk to him."

"I know you're curious. And yes, I would be, too. But two things, James."

"Yes, damn it, I realize this whole trip is very tough on House and isn't just a chance for me to ask questions. I'll keep that in mind."

"That was the first thing," Jensen admitted. He waited.

"All right, I'll ask, since you're going to go all House on me. What's the second thing?"

"He's humoring you. Thornton, I mean. Trust me, James, when it comes to pulling out data, you're in an unequal contest with him, and the fact that he's not ripping your own secrets open already is only because he's being nice. Just remember that in questions. If he wanted to turn the tables on you, he could, easily. He's a professional at it."

Wilson squirmed, suddenly wondering if Thornton really _had_ missed his discomfort in the car when he changed the subject after that painful comment about John's funeral. "What did he do? I thought he was a Marine, right?"

"Ask him if you really want the answer," Jensen said. "Or you could just accept that he _is_ House's father. Without the unfortunate background, but really, they think a lot alike."

Wilson's cell phone rang at that point, and he pulled it out. "Cuddy," he announced. After a brief conversation, he hung up. "They're going downstairs to the dining room later after the girls are asleep, probably after 7:00. The girls are wired, but I doubt they'll be able to stay awake too long past bedtime. Too much in today. Of course, she didn't mention anything about Thornton. You think he'll be there?"

"He'll probably have the door of the dining room staked out for us until a long way past 7:00. I'm sure he'll be joining us."

"So House is choosing to have dinner with him, even after snapping at him at the airport." Wilson smiled. "He wants this. He'd never admit it, being House, but he really wants to get to know him."

Jensen returned the smile. "Yes. But be careful, James. This is bigger than just curiosity."

"I will. It'd be good for him to have a father figure, and anybody could improve on John. It would especially be good now that his mother's gone. Thornton's all the blood relative he has left." Wilson's thoughts abruptly returned to the funeral tomorrow. Guilt and concern both pushed back in. "I hope the funeral goes all right tomorrow."

Jensen looked equally worried. "So do I."


	26. Chapter 26

Thornton did indeed have the door of the dining room staked out, but Wilson only spotted him because he was specifically looking. Thornton was sitting in an armchair in a small waiting area not far from the dining room entrance, reading a magazine, and Wilson, studying him even more intently than before after Jensen's enigmatic comments, was struck by how absolutely casual he appeared. Honestly, you could walk right by the man and not have anything catch your attention. He seemed to have a talent for blending into his background. Even though Thornton immediately noticed Wilson and Jensen, there was also nothing abrupt or overly eager about how he put the magazine aside and casually stood before ambling toward them on his long legs. The oncologist watched his approach and began to suspect just what an excellent - and yes, practiced - actor this man was.

As for the relationship, it was there when Wilson looked but only hinted at unless he paid attention and starting listing similarities. Thornton had House's height, but his eyes, while blue, were a completely different hue, less vivid, less noticeable. He shared the lean, athletic build but was slightly less angular than House, and the sharpened edges and chronic pain lines in the face weren't there. No way Wilson could guess what color his hair had been - it was gleaming silver now. He was clean shaven.

Once or twice in their brief previous encounter in the courtroom, there had been something in the expression momentarily that reminded the oncologist very strongly of House, but most of the time, it wasn't there. Thornton looked pleasant, even handsome in an unremarkable way, but he didn't look as intelligent or insightful as his son, whose appearance advertised openly to the world the eccentric genius that he was. Within the next hour, Wilson would add back in the quality of intelligence to his description, along with a wicked sense of humor, but those weren't visible on the surface. Outwardly, Thornton almost looked _ordinary_.

Jensen had paused as he saw him (Wilson had jolted abruptly to a stop, and it was Wilson, not Thornton, who drew a curious glance from a passerby), and the two men waited as Thornton walked up to them, perfectly routine, everyday, just like any set of acquaintances meeting in public. "So Greg's not coming down to eat?" Thomas asked with an edge of concern.

"Yes, he is. They'll be down as soon as they get the girls sound asleep. It should be any minute," Jensen replied.

Thomas hoped that meant that Greg was feeling a little better after some meds and treatment for his leg. The physical pain when he exited the plane had been obvious. "Let's go ahead and get a table, then," he said, thinking it would shorten the time for Greg to be on his feet waiting when he arrived. Thomas started for the door of the dining room, the other two falling into step beside him. He felt a thrill of anticipation and also of hope, though neither showed outwardly. The others had expected to encounter him down here; Wilson's expression had been a dead giveaway. But they were still coming, when room service and every other restaurant in Lexington were also available as alternatives. His son wanted to talk to him.

Wilson, tuned into every nuance, found himself watching Thornton's stride as they entered the dining room. Long and forward, covering ground even when Thornton was playing things casual, but with a fluid grace to it, and Wilson was abruptly carried back to the preinfarction days. Yes, he recognized _that_, too.

They requested a table for five and were assigned to a comfortably sized round one, small enough to be intimate, large enough for elbow room. The dining room was fairly busy, mostly business travelers at this time of year, but it wouldn't be tourist season for a few months, so it wasn't at capacity. They sat down, Thornton quietly managing the chairs so as to put himself between Wilson and Jensen while saving the other two spots side-by-side for his son and his wife. Once House arrived, whichever of those chairs he sat in, he would be as near as possible with an odd number to sitting directly across the table from his father. That little manipulation was handled so skillfully that Wilson didn't even fully realize it until it was already accomplished.

Feeling slightly off balance at failing to notice he was being herded, Wilson launched his quest for more background as soon as the waiter had left after being told they would wait for the rest of the party before ordering drinks. He at least was going to get some solid details on what he was dealing with here, and he was fed up with being the caboose on the information train. Thornton, whatever kind of "professional" he was, couldn't possibly be pricklier than House to pull information out of. "So, Thornton," he said in his best firm, self-possessed, in-control tone, "what exactly did you do in the Marines?"

The other man didn't look prickly at all. In fact, he looked amused. "I was . . ." His attention sharpened, and Wilson knew even before turning to check the door that House and Cuddy had entered the dining room. "It gets a little involved," Thornton said. "I'll tell you in a minute." Wilson, put definitely if politely on hold, fumed silently at House's timing. Questions would be harder once House got there. He couldn't help but notice the definite differences between the father and son in their hanging-up-on-Wilson procedures, though. House never would have wasted time on an explanation and implied apology before switching to something else he found more interesting than the oncologist at that moment. Thornton was very focused now, even though he still did a good job of hiding it, and Wilson, temporarily thwarted, looked across at Jensen.

The psychiatrist was looking rather amused himself, but he spoke quickly to Thornton, his voice so soft he couldn't possibly have been overheard at other tables. "Once the food gets here, do not talk about any serious subjects while he's eating." Thornton looked at him briefly, then simply nodded, accepting it.

House and Cuddy spotted the other three promptly and headed straight for their table, Cuddy carefully holding her stride back to match her husband's slower progress. House was definitely moving better than he had at the airport, but his pain levels still were over baseline. That wasn't apt to improve much on this trip, he thought glumly as he limped across the room. He took in the seating arrangement at a glance, considered protesting just to stir things up, then decided that reshuffling would only draw even more attention from other diners than his cane-laden approach had done. He dropped into one of the chairs and glared across the table. "Sure, come right on and join us for dinner, why don't you?" he said sharply, though he didn't raise his voice, aware of surrounding tables.

"Thank you," Thornton replied pleasantly. "I will."

Cuddy hid her smile as she sat down. The waiter appeared with prompt efficiency, distributed menus, and took drink orders, and Thornton's eyes lingered on Wilson for just a moment as the oncologist ordered a plain Coke, even though Jensen ordered one, too.

Once the waiter had gone, House launched into the rules (revised juvenile version) for this visit. He kept his voice down, but he was all but daring his father to challenge him. "You're just a family friend on this trip as far the girls and Marina are concerned. Cross that line, and it will be the last time you ever see them."

"I know," Thornton reassured him sincerely. "I'm not trying to start anything, Greg."

Cuddy touched her husband's leg beneath the table. She was on his right, protecting his weaker side, and her touch was like a feather against his bad thigh, but she knew he was aware of it. "He already said that to Rachel at the airport, Greg."

Yes, he had, House remembered. He studied Thornton, again wondering about his motives. Thomas gave him a tentative smile, then abruptly left his son alone and turned back to Wilson. "What was it you wanted to ask me a few minutes ago, Dr. Wilson?"

He remembered perfectly well, Wilson realized, and was just offering a chance to change it if he wanted. Fat lot of good that would do at this stage, because House immediately plugged in some worst-case scenario question anyway and glared at Wilson. That at least meant that actually asking couldn't make things worse than letting his friend simmer in silent speculation. Besides, there was nothing at all wrong with background questions. They _had_ to talk about something while they ate. Thornton's background, aside from the touchy matter of his unacknowledged son, seemed as good a choice as anything and a lot more interesting than weather or sports. House was already mad at Wilson now whether the question was asked or not. So damn the torpedoes, Wilson decided. Full speed ahead. "I was asking just what it was you did in the Marines," he repeated.

House's reaction wasn't what Wilson had expected. He looked slightly amused himself now, which pissed the oncologist off. The waiter returned with their drinks just then, and they asked for a few more minutes to order; not a menu had been cracked as of yet. Thornton politely waited for the waiter to leave, then turned to face Wilson directly. For the briefest moment, the pale blue eyes were almost apologetic, and then they focused, and Thornton's entire expression changed. No longer did he look ordinary. "This was all classified, but no harm in admitting it decades later. I worked in intelligence," he said. "My specialty was in gathering information. They would send me in to extract as many secrets as I could from places and people who thought they were good at hiding them. I did that for most of my time in the service."

Wilson stared at him, suddenly feeling like a specimen under a microscope, pinned down firmly by the lens. "That . . . must have been interesting," he said. Those eyes bored into him, seeming to see clear through to read his shirt label on his back collar, and yes, they had all of House's focus. They weren't sinister in a physical way but were filled with searing perception, proclaiming that attempts to hide anything were useless. How had he ever thought them nondescript?

"Oh, it was. Sometimes more than others, of course, but it had its moments. It's amazing what you can find out just by letting people misjudge you at first." Thornton broke the gaze, all at once as amiable and ordinary as he had been at first, like changing from one costume and persona to another backstage before entering in a new role. "But that's all ancient history." His tone was purely conversational again. He glanced across at his son. House was laughing softly, and he looked more relaxed now.

Wilson took a swallow of his Coke, gaining breathing space for a moment and trying to find his composure, which seemed to be somewhere down on the floor beside his shoes. That had been like flipping a switch, on and then off, the speed and control of the transformation shocking. Below the table, Thornton lightly bumped him with his hand for just a moment, and the apology in his fingers was sincere. _He's using me to break the ice with House,_ Wilson realized. _And I walked straight into it._ _But it _did_ work, at least._ He looked at his friend. House definitely had settled down a little while enjoying the show at Wilson's expense. Oh, well, it had been for a good cause. Wilson fought back the sigh and dutifully asked his next question. "What did you do once you left the military?" Surely being a spy had ended there.

"I worked out another twenty years at a company as a translator," Thornton replied.

Wilson started to relax a little, no longer pinned to the back of his chair by those eyes. "Which languages did you work with?" He looked at House, wondering if that was an inherited talent.

Thomas shrugged. "Pretty much whatever ones were needed. All of the main ones, anyway."

House came to attention. "You're claiming you're fluent in _everything_?" he asked, with an edge of challenge underlying his voice.

Thornton didn't back down. "Enough that I worked full time selling that ability for twenty years, yes."

The blue eyes locked over the table. House abruptly switched into German. "So you think you're a big shot at languages, then?"

His father followed him linguistically without missing a beat. "It isn't a question of what I think, Greg. It's a simple fact." Thornton switched himself, jumping from there into Dutch. "You know how much travel was involved in the service, and me even more than John. Once they found out about the ability, they used it. They sent me into all sorts of places."

"And you just couldn't help soaking any language up," House responded, making it sound like a flaw. Both of them took a brief time-out to glance in unison at Jensen, who obviously knew at least a word or two of Dutch himself, and then the unofficial competition resumed.

Thornton changed over to Portuguese. "I always picked them up like a sponge. Didn't even have to work at it. It's a talent I was born with, but yes, I am good at it. You came by your ability there genetically, too, like the music."

House's eyes hardened. The other three people at the table were totally lost now, trying to interpret tone alone in this publicly private conversation. "Yeah, you think I'm just a chip off the old block, don't you?" That had been one of the things John used to tell him before he realized the true paternity involved. The phrase set House's teeth on edge ever since he had remembered that.

Thornton shook his head. "No, I don't. You're your own person, Greg. But yes, there are bits of me that I can see, even more of Dad. I'm not claiming you as a carbon copy lacking individuality, but there _are_ genetic contributions, and I appreciate them. That's a fact, too, not just my opinion." He changed into Italian, the language of love. "I'm _proud_ of you, Greg. Always have been. I'm proud of the heritage that's in you, and I'm also proud of your own qualities that are totally original, and I'm especially proud of what you've made of your life."

House retreated and changed the subject, unable to accept the approval yet. "What were. . ." He stopped and switched to Japanese, refusing to stick to Italian. "What the hell were you doing coming down to the airport to meet us? Trying to play prodigal father and move straight in? You haven't earned that right yet."

Thomas looked down briefly, trying to keep from fixating on that tantalizing word _yet_, although his heart had jumped at it. Meeting his son's eyes again, he gave him the truth. "I wanted - _needed_ - to make sure you were safe."

House stared at him, annoyance paused momentarily at the unexpected answer. "_Safe_? Why wouldn't I be? Lisa talked to you last night; you would have seen us in another hour or two anyway. I'm a big boy now and perfectly capable of managing a plane trip. I've done it dozens of times. Why wouldn't I be safe - at least _now_, that is. Are you just trying to make up for missing asking that question in the past?"

Thomas flinched as that flaming arrow struck a bull's-eye. "I had a nightmare last night," he replied evenly. "I dreamed that your plane crashed, like Mom and Dad's crashed, and you and Lisa were both killed, and I had to arrange _your_ funeral. When I woke up, I knew it was just a dream, but still, all day, the shadow of it stuck with me. Nothing else worked to shake it. I needed to see you, as soon as I could, and I knew then, once I saw that you were safe, it would let go of me."

House looked away, fighting an unwilling sympathy. He was as much of an expert on nightmares as Thornton was on languages. His voice was soft as he dropped into English, ending the informal contest. "We'd better look at the menus before that waiter comes back."

Wilson had been staring again, following that whole sequence like a ping-pong game between two championship players. "Wow."

Cuddy quelled him with a look. She was just as impressed, but she knew better than to push it. She had no idea what that conversation had contained, but she did know it had switched to serious matters part way, and she knew that Thornton had somehow gained his son's sympathy at the very end of it. She wasn't about to lose the ground just won by getting House stubborn. "You're right, Greg. We need to order." She opened her menu, looking at her watch at the same time.

"Go ahead and call Marina for an update," her husband suggested. "She'd call us if things went wrong, though." They had promised the girls (and the nanny) that they could be back upstairs within five minutes if needed and that they wouldn't even be leaving the building. The girls had been a little resistant, but today had worn them out, and sleep wasn't too delayed.

"Let's order first." They made their selections, and then Cuddy called upstairs. "All quiet," she reported as she hung up a few minutes later. "They're sound asleep." The group cumulatively relaxed, Thornton included. He knew better than to ask questions on the girls right now, though.

"What else do you want to know, Wilson?" he asked. Not just a friendly question that time but almost a request.

Wilson obliged. "What about your family? Any siblings? Kids - I mean other kids?"

"Yes on all fronts. I had two siblings, a brother and a sister. I'm the youngest."

Wilson noted the past tense. "Are they dead?"

Thomas nodded. "My sister died about thirty years ago. She apparently picked up some bug while traveling, and it developed into atypical pneumonia. Nothing they tried worked."

House came to attention. "What did they try? Where had she been traveling?"

"She took a safari. We all did, actually, my wife and I along with her, as well as Tim and his wife. He was my other son. Ellie was the only one who got sick afterwards, though. We went through Kenya mainly." He gave a sad smile at his son's differential expression. "I can get the old medical records if you'd like to look through them."

"Might as well try to see what the medical idiots missed. It might make a difference someday with a patient if I ever run across it again." House hesitated. "If you don't mind."

"I don't mind. I'll request them once I return to St. Louis."

"What about your brother?" Wilson asked.

"He joined the Marines a few years before I did, and he was killed in Korea." Thomas paused, then went on, looking back at Greg, silently offering this as another trigger behind his nightmare. "On New Year's Day."

Wilson flinched and fell into silence as today's date landed with almost an audible thud in the middle of the table in front of them all. Jensen, fairly quiet so far and just watching and appreciating the conversational interplay, gave Thornton a compassionate look. "I'm sorry," Cuddy murmured. She only remembered a moment later to give her husband's arm a squeeze as she said it in lieu of their more active reconditioning, but House didn't seem lost in the past in spite of her late response. He was watching his father with that grudging sympathy again.

Wilson, meanwhile, getting the idea by now that absolutely everybody else who had ever been in Thornton's life was dead, decided to change the subject. No point in drawing out a parade of funerals from the other man and reminding House of Blythe's tomorrow. Besides, Wilson was starting to feel sorry for him himself. He grasped at the first question he could think of that wouldn't involve what happened to relatives. "Does anybody ever call you Tom?" The derivatives of James had always grated on him, but there were people who insisted, even after he had stated what he preferred. Operating from that framework, he had noticed in retrospect that Cuddy in the airport had called Thornton Thomas.

Thornton smiled at him, and Wilson again had the feeling, at least without the paralyzing intensity of being under a microscope this time, that the other man knew exactly what he was thinking and even appreciated the change of topics. "A couple of people in the Corps, but not many. I've always been Thomas in my family. See, _my_ grandfather was Tom, and he actually lived with us for his last several years when I was really young. It would have been too much to have two Toms under the same roof. Then when I got married, Emily had a brother, and he was Tom. So she liked the difference herself."

House shook his head, but there was almost a friendly edge behind the scoff this time. "You and your family needed to work on another letter. There are 25 others, you know. Try a little originality for a change."

Thornton grinned at him. "Dad used to say something similar to that at times, even though he was the one who named Tim after himself. I confess, our family tree gets a little repetitive. A few generations back, there was also a string named Thaddeus. Three versions of those. That left me glad to just be Thomas."

House cringed. "Did people actually _name_ their kids stuff like that?"

At that moment, the food came. Thornton, remembering Jensen's warning, avoided all serious topics while they ate and instead produced a long string of "idiots of the week," as he had called them - the most ludicrous, oblivious people and situations he had run into in his 20-year career working as a translator. Wilson and Jensen both tossed in a few of their own similar encounters of the medical variety, with all identifying details removed, of course. House was quiet for the most part now, though he did throw in some of the more memorable patients from Diagnostics, personality wise, at Wilson's prompting. Much to Cuddy's surprise, House actually did manage to finish off the meal, even if slowly, and for at least half an hour, he forgot about the funeral tomorrow.

She knew the moment he remembered, feeling it settle down onto him like a cloud, almost visible. "We need to get back upstairs before the girls want to see us," he said abruptly, pushing his chair back and stiffly rising to his feet.

Cuddy quickly stood beside him. "Yes, we do. See you all later. Good night, everybody."

"Good night," they responded, and then Thornton switched into Spanish as his son turned away from the table. "Good night, Greg." House turned, looking back at him for a long moment, then limped away without responding.

Thornton let out a deep breath, relaxing. "That went surprisingly well," Wilson noted.

"It did," Jensen agreed. The psychiatrist reached out to touch Thornton on the shoulder as he stood. "I'm sorry about your brother. I know anniversaries are tough."

Thomas nodded. "This one improved a whole lot halfway. Now I've got something positive to associate with it, too." He looked at Wilson. "Sorry for pushing you a little bit there."

"You did give me a chance to back out first." Wilson studied Thornton, then said, "You know, earlier tonight, I was thinking how little you looked like him, but the more I see you together, the more obvious it is." The oncologist offered his hand, and Thornton shook it. "Nice to finally meet you."

Thomas stayed alone at the table for a few minutes, replaying the evening in his mind. So much bad history behind them, but there was also one priceless word, even if Greg had been mad when he said it. _Yet_. His son had told him he hadn't earned that right yet. Tomorrow loomed large and dark ahead of them, but beyond that, there was a glimpse of the future. He finally stood up. Fishing out his wallet, he dropped a bill on the table and then headed upstairs. Long day tomorrow, and he hadn't had a good night last night. He was very tired, but for right now, even with all the difficulties ahead, he was satisfied.

A few minutes later, the waiter, clearing the table, stared in disbelief. Tucked under the edge of one plate was a $100 tip. With a smile, he captured it before it could get away and quickly pocketed it. The new year was starting off right.


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: Two things have kicked in this last week hindering writing/posting time somewhat. First, work woke back up from the holidays - a good thing. Second, my musical groups hit full gear again after Christmas break - also a good thing. This story will probably go more slowly now than it did for a little while there during the down time, so be patient.

Also, there is now another developing Pranks story in line which actually jumped the one I thought was next up. It didn't change the events of the other, just happens earlier. It's in full plotting right now. There's also a non-Pranks one-shot I'm currently playing with, pure comic relief, that's liable to show up in the next few days. I have zero control over my muse, but the ride in this series shows no signs of ending yet.

Thanks for all the reviews, and here ends New Year's Day. I think it's quite appropriate that my muse decided to get House, the girls, and Thomas actually all together for the first time on New Year's Day. Tomorrow (fic time) will be the funeral, and that day is several chapters long, too. Onward, and thanks for reading.

(H/C)

House and Cuddy stood in the doorway of the second bedroom which had been set up for Marina and the girls and watched their daughters. Both girls were sound asleep, Abby smacking a little at the moment as if enjoying dream delights, Rachel with one arm thrown over her stuffed horse. Their parents stood for a long time before turning away.

"Thank you, Marina," Cuddy said.

The nanny smiled. "Everybody was quiet. They're getting better all the time. All they needed was being with you." She paused. "But I still think they should go tomorrow."

House flinched, and his stomach abruptly clenched to the point that it was physically painful. The funeral. Tomorrow was his mother's funeral.

Cuddy sighed. At that moment, a light knock came on the door of the suite, and House gave a low growl. "I _knew_ he couldn't let it alone. Came up here for another look at them in person tonight." He limped stiffly for the door, aware again of his leg, which he had almost forgotten for a few minutes over dinner. Sure enough, Thornton had only been reeling him in earlier, trying to get his defenses down, and now was making his real move. Marina looked after him with puzzled concern.

House jerked open the door, but it wasn't Thornton who stood outside. It was Jensen. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" the psychiatrist asked.

The anger House had all prepared evaporated without a target, leaving him suddenly exhausted. He leaned a little harder on the cane. Jensen noticed, though his eyes stayed on House's face. "Just for a minute," Jensen emphasized. "I know we're all tired after the trip. I don't want to get into things right now."

Cuddy took over smoothly. "Thank you again, Marina, and we'll see you in the morning," she stated. The nanny had been watching House closely, but she took her dismissal and retreated into the bedroom with the girls. "Unless you need us earlier," Cuddy amended quickly, and Marina nodded to her as the door shut. "I'll be in our bedroom, Greg," Cuddy said, walking over to the other door. That one also clicked shut, and Jensen and House were left alone in the main room.

Jensen didn't try to sit down to encourage House to. He wasn't planning to be here long enough tonight; they all had a long day tomorrow, House most of all, and needed to get to bed. The psychiatrist had debated talking to him tonight at all, but tomorrow morning before the funeral would hardly be better timing. Just a brief minute, stating his opinion but not challenging, and then he would retreat and leave House the space he needed to consider it.

House jumped in before he could start. "If you mention the word bonding, I'll hit you with this cane. I was just eating dinner. He's the one who crashed the party. Nothing I could do about it without causing a scene in the dining room."

"I don't want to talk about Thornton," Jensen reassured him. That definitely had its place in a session or twelve coming up, but not until they were clear of the immediate crisis that had sparked this trip. He'd let Thornton do the talking - both verbal and silent - on that subject at the moment.

House relaxed, and the lean on his cane increased a little more. "What, then? Just want to compare rooms? Yes, ours is bigger, but you and Wilson don't have to share with that damned whinnying horse."

Jensen phrased it carefully. "I just wanted to say that I think going to the funeral tomorrow would be good for the girls."

House tightened up instantly, and his eyes hardened. "They don't need to see . . ." He trailed off into silence.

"A funeral isn't a bad thing, Dr. House. John isn't at this one; don't let his lies affect your decision as a parent. I just think it would be good for them and would help them to process their death. That's all I wanted to say. Good night."

Jensen started to turn away, and House's next words stopped him in his tracks. "Yeah, but _you _thought _last_ week was a good idea, too, and your professional approval there sure wound up counting for a lot."

Jensen stared at him, momentarily caught off guard, and House saw the pain in his eyes and knew that he had just hurt the psychiatrist badly, worse than he ever had in all these years. House's stomach clenched even tighter than before. He wasn't truly blaming Jensen for last week; after all, the psychiatrist had been the one who tried to stop things sooner while House mowed over him. He had just been lashing out, wanting to avoid really thinking about the funeral, and the unintended dead-on accuracy of that bull's-eye resounded through him almost as much as it did Jensen.

Jensen was the first to break the silence. He collected himself and straightened up again. "Good night," he repeated, and even now, there was no anger in his tone. "I'll see you in the morning." He left the suite, leaving House standing there alone.

Only not alone, of course. John's voice immediately crowded in, just like it had the last few days at any opportunity. At least it picked a different topic than the funeral for once. _"Nobody's ever going to care about you, Greg. You're not worth putting up with. All you ever do is screw things up." _

House turned so quickly that he almost tripped on his leg, and with John's laughter ringing in his ears, he limped as quickly as he could to the bedroom. Cuddy was sitting on the bed holding a book that was still closed, and she popped to her feet immediately. John's voice died into silence at the sight of her. How odd that in this, the worst flare-up House had ever had of replaying John's old threats and predictions, the simple state of being with someone he was close to was enough to turn the soundtrack off. "Let's go to bed, Greg," she suggested. "This day has been too long."

"Tomorrow's not going to be any . . ." He broke off. He didn't want to think about tomorrow, not about himself and his predicted actions, not about the girls, not about his mother lying there cold and dead. He wanted to turn off the thoughts completely like Cuddy's presence had the voices.

She came across to him. "I know, Greg." A world of pure sympathy in her eyes, but it _wasn't_ pity. Ever so slowly, he was starting to see the difference at times. She embraced him but moved away after just a moment. She knew how much his leg was hurting as much as he did. She was careful to stay right with him as they went through the bathroom in a community trip and then changed into sleep clothes. House was glad of it; she was more than a match for John. Part of him, though, was oddly tempted to call Jensen up on his cell phone and apologize, and he couldn't do that with Cuddy hovering. Oh, well, Jensen knew he hadn't meant it. He still felt guilty, though. As he shook out the doses on his nighttime meds, including a knock-out dose of the sleeping pill, he welcomed the artificial escape tonight. That, at least, could give him a few hours of not having to feel anything, and the multifaceted guilt, as well as the confusion over Thornton's agenda, could be postponed. He only wished it would last clear through the funeral and he could wake up on the other side with everything over. He gulped the pills down.

Cuddy turned off the lamp on the nightstand and snuggled down against him, pulling him close. "Greg," she said softly. "I heard something once that annoyed me at the time, but it's true. How many hours are there in a day?"

"24," he snapped.

She didn't move away at his tone. "Right. Every day just has 24. Even the _worst_ day just has 24, same as all the others, and even the worst day ends after those have counted down. We _will_ make it through tomorrow, Greg, and tomorrow night, when we're lying here, the funeral will be past us. We'll get through tomorrow together."

"Stop sounding like a cheesy chick flick," he protested. "I'll bet that's where you heard that. Some stupid movie; philosophy by Hollywood." She chuckled and pulled him tighter against her, and he slid slowly into the arms of her and the meds and landed in dreamless sleep.

(H/C)

Jensen entered the room he was sharing with Wilson and walked straight over to his suitcase, pulling out sweats and tennis shoes. Wilson, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed considering a second call to Sandra for the day, came to attention. "Where are you going?"

"Just out for a walk." Jensen's voice seemed as smooth and unflappable as ever, but he was visibly tense, and the tone was obviously only a veneer.

Wilson recognized the signs from long years of experience. "What did House say to you? Can't have been a long conversation, but he can blast people in a short one. He is that good."

The psychiatrist sighed. "I can't tell you what we talked about. He's just tired after the long day and the trip."

"I know what he can be like, even so." Jensen started for the bathroom, clothes in hand, and Wilson watched him. "You're seriously going to go out for a walk - after dark in the middle of downtown in a strange, large city? What if there are muggers? Or gangs - I'm sure Lexington has a few of those, too."

"I won't go far, James. Just around the block a few times."

Wilson stood up. "No."

That got Jensen's attention, at least. The psychiatrist stopped and looked at him. "No? James, there aren't always dangers lurking around every corner. I'll be fine."

"But there _are_ dangers lurking around some corners, especially in big cities after dark. That's not being paranoid; it's a fact. And another fact is that even if the chances are small, tonight is _not_ the time to take them. If, hypothetically, something did happen to you tonight, the timing couldn't be worse. House is going to need you to get through tomorrow." Jensen hesitated, still looking tense but at least thinking through that.

Wilson fell back onto another tactic, trying his more familiar field of manipulation instead of facts. "Besides, I'd really rather not be alone tonight. You did tell me to find some company if I started thinking about things." Jensen tilted his head and gave him a skeptical look. Wilson didn't even sound convincing to himself, but he pushed on quickly with a mental apology to Sandra. "Really. Earlier, when everybody else was ordering drinks at dinner, I _wanted_ one." True enough, though also true that the impulse had been conquered without much of a battle within just a minute or two. "I don't want to be alone and wind up going down to the bar and getting into trouble."

Jensen studied him for a moment. Wilson carefully manufactured his most sincere look, and Jensen finally put the sweats and tennis shoes back down, although the oncologist caught a quick flash of amused gratitude in his eyes as he turned away. "All right, James. You win this one." He fished in his luggage and came up with a chess set he had brought just in case House got in the mood or in a situation where the distraction might be useful. "Do you know how to play chess?"

"Yes, but not very well. Sure, I'll play a game with you." Jensen sat down on the bed next to him and started setting the board up between them. "Thornton is _interesting,_" Wilson started. "Did you get any of that with the languages?"

"Only a few words. It was obviously a private conversation." Jensen finished setting the board. "You can go first."

By the time they went to bed, Wilson had failed at both informational fishing and chess. Jensen would only discuss what they had talked about openly at dinner without adding any new data to it, and he beat Wilson in three games straight. The oncologist thought as he turned out the light that at least hopefully, between that dinner and Jensen later, he had done his good deed for the day today.

(H/C)

As tired as he was, Thomas was reluctant to go to sleep. He wasn't worried about a replay of last night's dream; nightmares were rare for him. He simply didn't want to stop thinking about the rest of today, playing every memory like scenes from a favorite movie, reliving every sight from the airport on, relishing the dinner again. He kept looking at the pictures in his wallet by the light of the bedside lamp, adding mental pictures of his granddaughters to them and looking forward to actually doing so, however long that took. Finally, he turned off the light and surrendered to the weariness. "Good night, Emily," he whispered softly, and then, directing it mentally just a few floors away, miraculously in the same building, he added, "Good night, Greg."


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Short update. Next up, but probably not before the weekend, is breakfast - and yes, with everybody.

(H/C)

Today was his mother's funeral.

That was his first waking thought, settling down on him like a thick cloud, heavy with unshed rain, lightning flashes throughout. He could feel the danger in the air.

Cuddy had his hand clasped in hers, holding on tightly, and he opened his eyes. She was beside him but still asleep or more likely asleep again. The stress and worry of the last week were plain on her face, and he felt a stab of guilt for all he had caused her. At least she hadn't had to arrange the funeral, too, which would have been her job otherwise. He knew he couldn't have done that. A reluctant gratitude toward Thornton pushed in, and he firmly shoved it away. Even in sleep, Cuddy was holding onto him. The fact still amazed him at times. He would have long since given up on himself.

John's voice at least was stilled; even slumbering company apparently worked. Its absence only gave House room to call himself a weakling, independent of his stepfather's prompting. He knew now beyond a doubt, watching the girls make progress, that it had been right to take them along, that they needed the reassurance of having their parents around, that a several-day absence would have shattered their security at the moment. Yet he had come so close to leaving them behind anyway. Marina's words still stung, the more so because he knew they were right. He had been putting his own needs ahead of his daughters, and the fact that Marina didn't know all of the history and reasons didn't change the truth of her words.

Did they actually need to go to the funeral? The concept of _needing_ to go to a funeral was so alien to him. Yet Jensen and Marina and Cuddy and even Wilson once had talked in the last few days about how good it was to go to a funeral, that it was a step toward healing. Of course, the rules for everybody else didn't apply to him in some areas, but did they apply to the girls? But if they went and were traumatized by this rather than helped, he would never forgive himself. If what traumatized them wasn't Blythe's funeral but his own actions at it, that would be even worse.

Jensen. He had thought it was important enough to come up last night, knowing the timing was awful, knowing they had all had a long day, just to give his opinion, not challenging but stating it politely. And House had absolutely speared him for it. A new fear flared up suddenly on the memory. What if _Jensen_ didn't go to the funeral? What if he had just checked out either last night or first thing this morning, was flying home early, and finally was washing his hands of House and his unsolvable problems? House couldn't blame him. Even with the best psychiatrist, some people are simply too screwed up to be helped. But at the thought, his stomach threw another twist on the knot already there. Getting through today at all would be one of the hardest things he had ever done. Getting through it without Jensen, with the condemnation of his absence instead of his steadying, _understanding _presence would be impossible. House desperately groped with his right hand for his cell phone on the nightstand, doing his best to avoid moving his left, captured by Cuddy, and he managed one-handed to send off a frantic text. _Sorry._

He waited, counting leaden seconds. He knew Jensen would already be up, even though it was early. It was almost three eternal minutes before the reply came. _Apology accepted. See you at breakfast._ House closed his eyes in relief on the reassurance in the last line. Jensen was staying. He would be there today, and next week, and next month, just as always. Still, it took three minutes. Had he been in the shower or busy with something, or did it take him that long to debate his answer? House remembered the flare of pain deep in those eyes. Accepting the apology was one thing, but the pain the wound had caused was not eliminated by forgiveness.

With a sigh, House replaced his cell phone on the nightstand, and his thoughts raced back to the funeral. What if he ruined it for everyone, as John had predicted dozens of times? What if his girls saw him ruining it for everyone?

Cuddy stirred, and her first thought of the morning was guilt. He could see it written across her face. She had overslept with things to do, responsibilities to meet, details to be worried about. She opened her eyes and met his, and the guilt doubled. "I meant to be awake for you."

"You were there, even asleep." He gave her hand a slight squeeze. "Was everything quiet last night?"

"Yes. I went over twice to check on them quickly."

She seemed to cut off another statement after that one, and his annoyance flared up. "Go ahead and say it. You think they should go too, don't you?"

She sighed. "I do, but I know there's a lot more you're dealing with that even now you haven't told me. I'm not going to condemn you for leaving them here for an hour if you need to do that, Greg. You're a wonderful father to them, and that's not going to change."

"I almost left them at home," he contradicted. "Putting myself above what was best for them. Yeah, _that's_ a great father."

She leaned over to kiss him but didn't prolong it. She knew he wasn't going to relax this morning, no matter what she tried. Better not to make him feel like a failure in additional ways other than just at dealing with death. "Almost doesn't count, Greg. Besides, I knew you'd wind up taking them in the end. I just was trying to protect them in the meantime, but I didn't doubt what your decision would be."

He met her eyes again at that. "Why not?"

"I know you." His puzzled eyes made the silent but automatic protest, and she kissed him again. "I _do_ know you, Greg. Even the parts you think aren't worth knowing. All the pain and the scars don't change a thing. I love all of you. I wish the pain could be less, but that's only for your sake, not mine; I wouldn't change anything about you from my point of view. And I knew that ultimately, you would do this for your girls, because you _are_ a wonderful father, and you are incapable of walking away with them that upset and leaving them back in Princeton. I'd stake everything on that. Because that's the person you are. You have plenty of faults like the rest of us, but loyalty and love are two of your strongest points."

Stunned at the tribute, he stared at her. "But you just said you'd understand me leaving them for the funeral."

"That's not the same as leaving them clear back at home for days and days. I think it would help them to go, but I also think they could deal with having us leave for an hour at this point. They wouldn't be terrified by it. As for your mother, Marina's been talking to them about death, and they seem to be getting a better understanding of it, on a toddler level, of course. I don't think they'd be traumatized by going, and it would be a chance to say goodbye. But if you can't do that, I'll accept your call on it. You don't have to explain, and they aren't going to be scarred for life by staying here playing with Marina. I think going to the funeral is the better choice, but I don't think leaving them behind is an awful one."

He looked at her for a moment, then slowly said, "I have been hearing John's voice the last few days."

She put her arm around him and pulled him closer, as if ready to get in a tug-of-war for him if needed. "I thought you had. But worse when you're alone, right?"

"No," he corrected. "_Only_ when I'm alone."

"You mean just being with one of us is enough to kill it? Even now?" He nodded. She hugged him fiercely, and he could feel almost a joy in her. She thought he was getting better, he realized, thought this was a sign of some great progress. Of course, if she saw him totally lose it, that opinion would correct itself quickly enough. "Greg," she continued, "if he's silent when you're with one of us, then he is _not_ going to be there today. We won't leave you alone, not even for a minute. It will just be a service for your mother. I mean, I'm not trying to downplay that. I know how hard this is going to be for you. But we can keep John away if the key is that simple. You only have to face everything else, not him, too."

He wished he shared her confidence on that. Still, maybe without John's voice, he could manage to keep a lid on everything else and not ruin it for the rest of them. He realized he had been anticipating John's voice and predictions right there in his ear at the funeral, but if the prescription of company continued to help, John in fact wouldn't be there. He sighed again. Without John along, maybe the rest of them could have their funeral in peace. He just wouldn't let himself feel anything there, and then he wouldn't be in danger of falling apart in front of them and distracting from whatever it was they got out of the process.

"I guess the girls can go."

She broke the embrace and looked at him, searching. He tried not to fidget under her intent gaze. "Are you sure, Greg? I meant it; this isn't the same thing as leaving them back home for the whole trip."

He tried to flee to humor. "You just don't want to pack all the junk to take along with them. And we are _not_ taking that damned horse." He wouldn't have to ruin the funeral then; a whinnying and clip-clopping horse could do a great job alone.

She didn't quite look convinced of his decision, but at that moment, there came a soft knock on the bedroom door. "Dr. Cuddy? Are you awake?"

Cuddy gave a quick, obsessive check of the scene just in case it had changed and she hadn't noticed. "Come on in, Marina. We're decent."

The door opened, and the girls surged in, sleep still in their eyes but glad, trusting faces zeroed in on their parents. "Good morning!" Rachel called, and Abby repeated, "Morning!" The nanny walked in behind them and boosted both of them up onto the bed before leaving the room again, giving them a few moments of privacy before the pressures of the day insisted on starting.

House sat up in bed, watching his family as if at a distance, and he tightened up the double-fisted hold he already had on himself. He wasn't going to ruin this day for the rest of them.


	29. Chapter 29

Thornton was there, sitting in the lounge near the entrance to the dining room, reading the morning paper.

An odd feeling ran through House head to toe as his searching eyes spotted the other man. It wasn't relief, nor gladness, he told himself. Definitely not that he wanted to see his father. No, his own feelings weren't relevant or even existent here, but Thornton still hanging around closely made it convenient for experimental purposes. It had occurred to House while he was taking a shower that Marina had a fairly developed BS meter, and he was curious to obtain her opinion of Thornton. That was all. She'd seen him at the airport, but she'd hardly had long enough to judge in those few minutes, and even then, in retrospect, House thought she had been a little suspicious. Let her sniff him out for a little while, and her presence would also keep Thornton from acting like he was part of the family. The girls would hardly be harmed by one breakfast with five adults present on their behalf to monitor things.

Thomas folded the newspaper and stood up casually, though promptly. His eyes rested on Greg for a moment, then quickly moved on, afraid to linger. His son already looked stretched out like a spring about to break. So much pain there, but he thought there had been a sort of unacknowledged welcome in the first expression, too. Thomas wanted nothing more than to help him through this day somehow, but he knew Greg most likely wouldn't allow it. The girls were with them. Lisa had Rachel, and the nanny held Abby. Rachel brightened up instantly as he came forward and she noticed him. "Hi, Thomas!" she called.

He smiled at her as he came up to join them. "Hi, Rachel."

"Morning, Thomas," Lisa said, and there was no mistaking the welcome in her voice, even if it was overlaid by worry.

"Morning, Lisa, Greg, Marina." He looked at Abby, who was looking back at him, curious. Her father's eyes. _His_ father's eyes. "Hi, Abby," he said.

She considered the reply. A thoughtful 2-year-old. He'd pieced together that much from Greg's rare comments about the girls by email or phone, but it came across even more strongly in person. This wasn't a specific reaction to him; this was how she approached the world. "Hi," she said after a moment.

House shifted his weight. "We'd better find a table. A big one, if _he's_ going to insist on joining us." He made it sound like the difference between a party of seven and a party of eight was an enormous one.

Rachel cast her vote firmly. "Let's _eat!" _She wiggled, wanting down, and her mother held her firmly.

"Not right now, Rachel."

Thomas grinned at her enthusiasm. "I'll see if they've got some high chairs." He took the lead as the group entered the dining room.

By the time they had a large table assigned and were getting the high chairs set up, Jensen and Wilson arrived. Wilson seemed surprised to find the girls there, and his stride caught for a moment as he looked from House to the girls to Thornton. Then he looked at Cuddy and remembered himself. House at least hadn't noticed, even if Cuddy had. House instead was looking at Jensen with unmistakable relief in his eyes, and Wilson wondered again just what had been said between those two last night. Jensen would let it go, of course. Good thing he wasn't waiting for an apology, not from House. Wilson picked up stride again. "Morning, everybody." Remembering the occasion, he didn't call today's good. There was a general murmur of response from all except House.

They wound up sitting with Rachel placed between Wilson and Marina, Abby between Marina and Cuddy, House next to Cuddy, and Jensen on his other side. Thornton again sat between Jensen and Wilson, though this time he didn't stage manage it that way, just letting the others fall in as they wished first. They were tighter for time this morning and ordered first thing, with Rachel picking pancakes and Cuddy adding oatmeal; those two would be easy enough for the girls to eat. House reluctantly ordered pancakes himself. He obviously had zero appetite this morning.

Once the waitress had taken their orders and moved away, House looked at Thornton, and his tone was almost challenging. "So tell us again about some of the good old days when you knew Mom and Dad so well, you being such a good family friend."

Marina wasn't the only one who looked at him oddly there. Both of the girls did, as well. Cuddy captured his hand under the table, stroking his fingers and hoping he wouldn't simply snap with tension during this day before he finally let go and let the grief take over.

Thornton replied smoothly. "I never knew them as well as I thought, either one. But let's not talk about that today." He looked at Wilson. "Do you have a family, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson stepped up. "I've got a girlfriend and also a young son. He was just born in June." Wilson fished out his cell phone and pulled up a picture, handing it over.

Thomas smiled. "He has your eyes." He carefully didn't look at Abby as he said it.

"Yes, he does."

"What's his name?"

"Daniel Gregory." Thomas looked at his son. "Yes, the Gregory is after House." Wilson felt himself tighten up briefly, as the memory of that still stung. Not of House's success, but of his own failure. "Daniel was born with a serious congenital defect, and House diagnosed it."

"CDH," House put in, unable to resist the medical trivia. He also wanted to see if the acronym stumped Thornton, which it did. They might be equal on languages, but he at least was better at medicine. There was a satisfied note to his voice as he explained. "Congenital diaphragmatic hernia. He had a hole in his diaphragm, so his abdominal organs migrated up to keep his lungs company and weren't giving them room to breathe."

Thornton looked genuinely concerned. "He's all right now, though?"

"He's fine," Wilson assured him, feeling a surge of relief at the fact. "He had to have surgery to reposition everything. He has an impressive scar clear down his abdomen, but he's doing just fine. He would have died if he hadn't been born at a major hospital, though."

Rachel was getting tired of this conversation that she couldn't follow. "Let's _eat_!" she demanded again.

Thomas looked over at Abby. "And how is Abby doing after her rough start?"

House tensed up. It was Cuddy who answered. "She's doing great. Just a little small, but she's come so far."

Wilson nodded. "She was a _lot_ worse off than Daniel, much more premature. She was in the NICU for months."

Abby was looking from one to the other of them with those eyes. "Who are you?" she asked finally, the first time she had spoken since they had sat down at the table.

"Thomas," Rachel informed her, just as he answered for himself.

"My name is Thomas. I'm an old family friend."

The food arrived at that point, and conversation stilled for a few minutes as the plates were passed around to the appropriate spots. Cuddy and Marina starting cutting off tiny bites of pancakes to alternate with the oatmeal. House stared at his place, feeling the rock in his stomach settle more deeply. He looked over at Marina as the others started eating. Sure enough, she was watching Thornton from the corner of her eye even while feeding both herself and Rachel, and she _did _look suspicious. He knew it. Nice to find at least _one_ person who agreed with him that this man had an awful lot to prove before he could be trusted.

Rachel finished a bite of pancakes. "Wilson need to teach them," she stated.

Wilson straightened up a little in the warmth of approval and laughed. "But these are pretty good, Rachel." He took a bite himself, theatrically savoring it. "Mmmm. What do you think, House?"

House slowly took a bite. "They're okay."

"Thomas, you like pancakes?" Rachel asked.

He smiled at her. The pure innocence of these two girls, the only ones at the table taking him at face value, was a breath of fresh air. "Yes, I do, Rachel. I take it that's a specialty of yours, Wilson?"

Wilson nodded. So did Rachel, more vigorously. "I have a recipe for macadamia nut pancakes," he explained. "House loves them. I agree, Rachel, these aren't quite as good as mine, but give the hotel a break. They have to feed a lot more people, so they can't give as much specialized individual attention to it."

House rolled his eyes. "_Specialized individual attention_. What a load of . . . c-r-a-p."

"Don't spell!" Rachel protested, and all of the adults had a smile for that.

"Do you like pancakes, too, Abby?" Thomas asked.

She considered it. "Yes," she said solemnly after a delay.

Cuddy gave her another bite. "She takes longer to warm up to anybody, Thomas. That's just how she is." Rachel was definitely the more sociable one. Cuddy and House had long since decided that her initial slow bonding had been due to her unsettled early start, being handed around among so many people in that _place_ where Cuddy had rescued her. There had been little constancy in those first weeks when the initial bonding for an infant to the parents usually takes place. Now that Rachel was secure in her family, she was much brighter and outgoing.

"It's okay. I know they hadn't ever met me until yesterday. What else do you like, Abby?"

"Music," she answered, a little more quickly that time. She looked over at her father. "You play?"

"No piano here, Abby," House replied. "I'll play for you when we get back home, okay?"

Rachel jumped back in, tired of being on the sidelines. "Thomas, I got a horsey!"

"Really? Did you get it for Christmas?"

"Uh huh. Daddy gave it to me."

Thomas held himself steady, keeping his tone joking, even though that hurt. Greg had said that the gifts would be from Santa Claus, not that he would take credit himself. The first was simply misleading, the second was an outright lie, deliberately negating him. "Where is it? Must be a small horse to be here and me not see it. Is it under the table?" He looked beneath the tablecloth dramatically, and both girls dissolved into giggles. "No, not there. Is it behind your chair?"

Wilson scouted behind it carefully, getting into the spirit. "Nope, no horsey here."

"Silly!" Rachel told him. "It's in the room." She looked at her mother with a cute little pout, having resented not being able to bring it down to breakfast.

"The horse didn't belong at breakfast," Cuddy reiterated firmly.

"Well, mine isn't here, either, so that makes both of us having to be separated for the moment," Thomas said.

Rachel perked up, forgetting her own grudge. "You have a horsey?"

"Yes, I do."

"A _real_ one?" she challenged.

"Very real." Thomas pulled out his cell phone, cued up a picture of himself with Ember, and handed it over to her. "There's a picture of her."

Rachel's eyes widened. "A _red_ horse!"

Curious, Wilson leaned over her high chair to check it out himself. It _was_ a red horse, pretty close, at least, the flaming coat set off even more sharply in the contrast with the black mane and tail. "I didn't know they came in that color," he said.

House stretched a hand out. "Gimme. There's no such thing as a red horse." Cuddy passed the cell phone to him, and he studied it himself. "That's not quite red," he objected finally.

"Very close," Wilson countered. House studied the picture for a long moment, then handed the cell phone to Jensen, who took a good look himself before returning it to Thomas.

"The official term is blood bay," Thomas told them. "It's not as common as plain bay. Most bays look like shades of brown."

Rachel was still trying to grasp the concept of someone who actually had a real, live horse and a red one to boot. "Where is he?"

"She's a girl. She's back where I live in St. Louis."

"Someone comes to feed her? Like Belle?"

House snorted, sounding very much like Rachel's stuffed horse when the correct ear was squeezed. "Horses are a little more complicated, Rachel. And take up a whole lot more room, too. You don't keep them in houses."

"Who is Belle?" Thomas asked.

"The cat. She had to stay home."

Thomas grinned, imagining a cat on top of all of that other luggage. "Glad to know there was _one_ thing you all left behind." Wilson snickered, and even House had a faint smile at the quip.

"Who feeds her?" Rachel demanded, still worried about the abandoned real horse.

"I keep her at a stable, Rachel. Lots of people pay the stable manager to keep their horses there, and all the horses get fed every day. It's somebody's job there to take care of them, every day. You don't have to worry about Ember. She'll be a little restless without me, but I've got a friend who will take her out for exercise a few times while I'm gone." The same friend had leased the mare during Thomas' year-long flight through Europe after Emily's death.

Rachel tilted her head, having caught a word she didn't know. "What's ember?"

"That's her name. It's because she's a red horse, actually. An ember is a piece of fire."

Rachel stared at him in pure hero worship. "A real horse," she said almost like a prayer. "You miss her?"

"Of course. Don't you miss Belle?"

"Uh huh. Can I see Ember?"

"She's a long way away, Rachel. I don't live anywhere close to your house."

"Can you move?" She refused to let a petty obstacle like that get in between her and a real horse.

House stepped in there, drawing a firm close to this table conversation before it truly got dangerous. "We need to get ready. Busy day." His mother's funeral. It hit him again, full impact, almost knocking him back against the back of his chair. "Come on. Breakfast is over."

Cuddy looked at her watch. "We really do need to get ready. It will take a while with the girls."

Rachel was suddenly solemn. "We have to say bye to Grandma today."

"I know." Thomas looked around the table. Greg had barely finished half of his plate, but everybody else was done, and he didn't think his son would manage to choke down any more even if they stayed another hour. He stood up. "Greg, may I talk to you alone for a minute?"

House glared at him suspiciously, but there wasn't much he could do against the public request without making Marina and the girls wonder what was really going on. He slowly hauled himself to his feet and followed Thornton to the door of the dining room. He stopped there while he was still able to see Cuddy, having no desire to invite John to this tete-a-tete.

Thornton dropped into Portuguese. "I'll keep my distance at the funeral, Greg. That way nobody will see us side by side for too long and start to wonder. But I will be thinking of you."

House dodged away from both the promise and the reminder of the funeral. "You're making Marina start to wonder now, asking to talk to me privately like this. Great way to keep up the front."

"She worked it out halfway through breakfast," Thornton stated confidently. House looked back at Marina, startled. She was watching them. Damn it. "But none of Blythe's friends who will be at the funeral are suspicious. The only person who wonders if I'm anything except what I say is the funeral director, and that's because I set everything up, but minding his own business is part of his profession. He's had a lot of practice leaving family secrets alone with other people before us, I'm sure. So I'll stay several rows away from you. But one other thing, nobody coming will bring up the past or John. You won't have to answer questions on that. Today is just a goodbye to her alone. Nobody will make it anything more for you."

House looked at him, challenging. "So you established rules and limits on everybody's conversation, and they _still_ aren't suspicious of you at all?"

"All you have to do is identify the ringleaders and drop subtle suggestions to them. They take it from there, and they have the influence to be heard. I'm positive the word has gotten around."

"What if somebody else comes you haven't happened to talk to the last few days?"

"I've been to the senior center and had delegates to carry the word to the flower club, the travel club, and the children's programs and cancer center where she volunteered. Even so, I'm leaving in just a few minutes, and I'll get there very early to watch them come in and watch how the people I've met react to them. If anybody new is there, I'll take care of it." He met his son's eyes. "You can trust me, Greg."

House felt the automatic denial rise up. Damn the man for looking so sincere. "You'd better be telling the truth on that." His tone didn't limit it to the funeral.

Thornton's hand shifted and then fell back, almost as if he wanted to take his arm and then thought better of it. "I'll see you later, Greg." He turned and walked out of the dining room.

House followed him out of sight with his eyes, his back to Cuddy, and only when she spoke up at his elbow, a quick, concerned, "I'm here, Greg," did he realize that John's voice hadn't seized the opportunity when he couldn't see his family. He turned to face Cuddy. Marina, Wilson, and Jensen were getting the girls extricated back at the table.

Cuddy did take his arm, her touch warming the frozen dread a little bit at the edges, but it did not penetrate the hard center. "Come on," she said softly. The others were coming to join them now.

"I like Thomas," Rachel announced as they got in the elevator.

"What did you think of him, Abby?" Wilson asked.

"Don't know," Abby replied after thinking about it for a minute.

House leaned against the wall, aware of Marina's eyes on him. Yes, he conceded, Thornton had called this one right. Marina knew now, and any chance at an objective BS reading from her was lost forever. She, like all of them, would be too caught up in the idea of how nice it would be for the girls to have a grandfather. Especially because they were now missing a grandmother.

Because his mother was. . . was . . .

House reached out and stabbed the button for their floor, even though the elevator was already moving. "These elevators are too slow," he griped. "For what we're paying, they need to upgrade."

Nobody took up the complaint, just watching him with sympathetic eyes instead. That annoyed him even more.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Here's a short bite written down while work is low today because of the holiday.

I'm not sure if there will be more updates until next week. Will just have to see how it goes. I lost a good friend this weekend whom I'd known over 20 years, and his life celebration service (he had said many times nobody was to ever call his a funeral) will be on Saturday. Between that Saturday and usual rounds Sunday, that pretty well absorbs next weekend. But even more, the next couple of Housecentric chapters are very intense and difficult ones in the first place. I'm not sure if I'll feel like getting into them this week. Maybe it will be totally different, as the circs certainly are from the real life one, but will just have to see. This is the second personal funeral I've had since starting this story, first my relative in November, then this one. I just think there's a chance that this week might not be exactly the time that I would feel like working through writing these particular tough upcoming chapters. Thomas in this scene has at least a sort of peace, at least with Blythe, even if longing regarding his son. There's nothing at all peaceful with House about what we're right on top of with this story, and they would have been hard chapters to write down at the best of times. Mom is also having some issues at the moment, which I hope will get better with some med adjustment, but that could also intervene in the next few days.

So anyway, you might get the rest of the week off from this story, and if so, I'll return the week after. Real life, when the two collide, trumps fanfic.

Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

Thomas deliberately got to the funeral home early, not just for the reasons he'd given Greg but also to have privacy for his own goodbye. The funeral itself started at 10:30, but the obituary had announced viewing of the body for the hour preceding that. Thomas got there at 9:10 and was the first guest. The funeral home staff was around at this point, but they knew him from the other day and stayed discreetly out of the way.

He entered the big room, feeling the emptiness of it settle over him. A room with a dead body feels so much more powerfully vacant than one simply unoccupied. Blythe was at the front of the room laid out in her casket, and he walked slowly but without hesitation down the aisle and stood there looking at her. She looked at peace. The staff had done a wonderful job arranging and presenting her, and while she had had cancer, according to Lisa, even already metastatic and probably beyond treatment, it had not yet ravaged her body and wasted her away. Disease had been creeping up softly behind her, not yet leaping to the vicious attack. She might have been asleep except for that resounding air of finality that stated, like a bell tolling, that she was not, that the eyes would never again open.

Emily had been much more of a challenge, only a whisper of herself at the end, and while the funeral home had done their best with her, there had been a noticeable difference between Emily in the casket and herself a few years earlier. Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself pass through the shadows of those years and out into the bright sunlight of good memories on the other side. He was glad Blythe had been spared that. So many loose ends, no doubt, but from her point of view, dying in your sleep wasn't a bad way to go. Perhaps even better for Greg this way, too; he would have been obsessed with the cancer, would have flung himself futilely against it, determined to win at any cost, to find the right answer that must be out there somewhere, as Thomas himself had. Probably even worse than Thomas himself had, since Greg was a doctor. For him, it would have been professional as well as personal failure.

Flowers filled the front of the room already, many flowers, and a florist deliveryman entered at that moment with another arrangement in each hand. He slipped up unobtrusively, leaving Thomas alone, and then disappeared to his truck again. Several more trips, and then he left.

The others would be arriving soon. Thomas looked at Blythe, remembering the times he had seen her over the years, remembering that one night long ago when she had been almost drunk on tenderness, seizing what he had realized later that she had never experienced elsewhere. He was glad that at least once, she had known it. He wished again that he had truly worked out what was going on with John. He would have gotten Greg out of there whatever it took, of course, but also Blythe, too, if he could have managed it. She should have known life out from under John's thumb. She simply had lacked the strength and insight to claim that right for herself. That didn't excuse nor remove her failure to protect her son, but he still ultimately felt sorry for her.

She had known freedom at the end. He was grateful for that, for those few golden years of happiness among her flowers. He was glad too that she had had a few years of honesty with Greg, even if too late.

She lay there, at peace. He leaned over and kissed her softly on the forehead. He never could have truly loved her, but he would never regret what they had had together. "Thank you for our son," he said softly.

Turning away, he started looking at the tags on the flowers. So many. Blythe would have true mourners today. John's funeral had had the stiff air of a military company presented for inspection. Even without knowing the truth, the atmosphere at John's funeral had struck Thomas at the time, and Emily also had remarked on it later. It had been artificial somehow.

John's funeral. There was something there that Wilson felt guilty about, felt guilty about after the fact. Wilson had not struck him as feeling guilty at all that day, not during the service, but the other night in the car on the way from the airport, there had been unmistakable, powerful guilt. Not just having missed the truth like everyone else but something in particular about the funeral. Thomas wondered briefly about it, then made himself let it go. He had too many of his own regrets to force others into parading theirs.

The first of Blythe's friends arrived, and he dropped smoothly into his assignment for the next hour. He needed to watch the interactions, follow the subtext, all the while without drawing attention, and make sure the word had gotten around to everyone to edit themselves strictly once Greg was here. He was pretty sure it had, would have left it there and trusted his instincts had this been a simple mission, but for his son, he needed to be absolutely certain.

Patsy, the neighbor, arrived fairly early, and she spotted him quickly. "Thomas," she said, coming up to him, "have you heard anything from Greg? Nobody's come by the house all weekend. I'm just hoping he made it."

"He's here. Actually, he happened to reserve rooms at the same hotel I'm staying at, and I bumped into them last night in the lobby."

She relaxed. "Good. Blythe actually held up John's funeral for him, and she was so worried that he wasn't going to get here in time. I guess he didn't want to stay in Blythe's house."

"Would you in his shoes?" Thomas asked.

She thought about it, then shook her head vigorously. "No, of course not. You're right. _He _lived there. Actually, if I were Greg, I'd get rid of the place as quickly as I could. I understand that; I was just hoping he hadn't been delayed traveling from Princeton."

"He's here along with his wife. They brought the girls, too."

She lit up like a Christmas tree. "Oh, good! So nice to have young life at a funeral along with death. None of us here have ever actually seen them. Just pictures. I'm looking forward to that. So you met them already?"

He nodded, suddenly struck by the fact that he was ahead of Blythe's friends again. The knowledge flooded through him like sunlight, warming him, taking away a little bit of the sting of exclusion from Thursday's lunch at the senior center. They still might all know more details and stories, but he at least had seen his granddaughters in person before half of the rest of Lexington had.

Patsy moved away and stood looking at Blythe, taking her own farewell, and he left her alone, granting her privacy for a moment. He finished his slow-motion flower inspection, all the while watching the people out of the corners of his eye, sizing them up, _reading_ the crowd with the natural observation he'd worked so hard to hone years ago in the Marines. They knew, even the ones he hadn't met yet. The word was safely passed around. The flow to the casket increased, and around them all, the stories and memories began to be shared. Good times, _recent_ times. Nobody else wanted to focus on the past any more than he did. He slowly drifted down one side of the room, detached from the group, finally claiming a place along the wall near the back. He listened to the stories and watched and remembered.

At 10:15, they arrived. Jensen the psychiatrist was first in, then Marina, laden with a bag of things for the girls. Wilson, immaculately clad in what looked like a funeral-specific suit. Rachel was walking this time, but Lisa had her captured firmly by the hand, holding on tightly as if she had had plenty of nightmares, if not a few actualities, of losing Rachel in a crowd. Lisa's other hand was on her husband's arm. Greg looked frighteningly pale and strained, and his eyes were on his feet, already avoiding the casket at the front before there was actually any chance of seeing it. He was holding Abby in his left arm, and she was wrapped firmly around him, looking at his face, not the group.

He paused in the open door, and Thomas saw him steel himself. For a few brief seconds, the eyes were searching until they found him. Just as quickly, Greg looked away, but he wasn't scanning the crowd after that. Lisa waited at his side, not pushing, holding Rachel back and waiting as the other three adults paused as somewhat of a shield in front of them. The people hadn't spotted them yet. Finally, as if all three legs were wooden, Greg entered the big room.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: First, thanks for all the well wishes. The life celebration service for my friend was a beautiful one, full of his own style (he prearranged it) and lots of laughter and memories as well as his own video final words. There were young kids there, by the way. Yesterday's visit to Mom was better than last week, and she is healing from her latest claw-herself-up fit.

Down to the world of fiction, this chapter is not the last word on the funeral. We will get a few retrospective looks later at what was going on in different quarters and what others were feeling, including Cuddy, girls, etc., to add to House's numb and rigid impressions at the time.

Enjoy is probably the wrong word for current events, but this chapter is a necessary step before the next one, so here it is.

(H/C)

He had to hold it together for them.

That thought possessed House as they were getting ready for the funeral. He wasn't going to ruin it for the rest of his family. If they needed this funeral for whatever bizarre reasons, they would get it, but he had to hold himself together for the next hour. As they were piling into the van - seven with two car seats worked but was a tight fit - House did what he had decided he had to.

After climbing into the front passenger's seat, he pulled out his Vicodin bottle under cover of the others getting the girls buckled in and getting set, and he took not a Vicodin but the two Ativan he had tucked in there earlier while sorting out his morning pills. His prescribed dose was 0.5 mg to be used for panic attacks, but that was a quite-small dose, and he knew how it affected him. He would still be functional at 1 mg, just with a chemical wall to lean against. Never before had he doubled the dose, and he hadn't planned originally to drug himself for Blythe's service, but after deciding to take the girls, the precaution made sense. If he lost it at the funeral in front of them or if John suddenly sprang to the attack mentally, they would just be frightened all over again. No, this was the best way. Cuddy was keeping an eye on him and staying reassuringly in sight, but there was nothing odd about his Vicodin bottle to catch her attention.

They finally got the passengers all stowed, and Cuddy started the van. House sat almost upright in spite of the pills, his back not even touching the seat, and tried to steady his breathing and not think about what lay ahead. Just get through it. Forget Cuddy's 24 hours; his sole goal in life at the moment was to survive the next one.

Marina was talking to the girls again behind him. "We're going to go say goodbye to your grandma now. You might see people crying there, like I said, but that's okay. It's all right to cry for her."

Jensen spoke up from the rear seat. "You're good with this, Marina," he said approvingly.

"Growing up in a big extended family gives you lots of practice," she replied. "I've been to funerals from the time I was a little girl. They're sad, but they don't have to be scary." She caught Rachel and Abby's hands as she was sitting between their car seats. "You're being such good girls with all the traveling. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you so much again for coming along with us," Cuddy said.

"You needed me," the nanny answered simply.

Rachel looked around at the cityscape passing by. "Lots of people there?"

"Yes. All her friends will be there. The people who cared about her. We're her family, and they were her friends. You have lots of friends just like that, too, people who care about you all around you. Like Dr. Wilson or Dr. Jensen."

"Thomas?"

House tightened up even more. The Ativan was taking effect, but he wished it were even stronger. Maybe he should have taken three. No, probably that would be too noticeable by the others, even the girls. He especially didn't want the girls to think anything was off with him.

Marina looked at Cuddy, and Cuddy met her eyes in the rear view mirror. _She knows_, Cuddy realized. Well, that had been inevitable. House had given it away himself. "Thomas will be there," Cuddy said. "He was a friend of Grandma's."

"Is he _our _friend?" Rachel persisted. Cuddy debated. The van was silent for a moment, all the others deferring to her except House, who wanted to avoid the question altogether. But Rachel wasn't likely to give up.

"He's our friend," Cuddy confirmed after a moment. That was the cover story, after all, and even more, it was the truth. He had been such a friend and more to them the last few days, so much love and support there. She hoped her husband would soon just let himself accept it instead of questioning its motive.

Rachel smiled. "I wanna be his friend."

"Of course," House muttered. "He has a horse." Rachel had never met anybody before who actually had one, and the animal had lure just because it was beyond the everyday world of dogs and cats. She loved all animals, but it made sense that a rarer one would have extra appeal. It wasn't like her opinion was an assessment of Thornton. She would probably like Hitler with a horse just as well.

Wilson dutifully tried to distract her. "Look, Rachel. There's a horse." He leaned forward over the back of the middle seat to point it out to her. House couldn't resist looking himself, as they were in the middle of the city, but sure enough, there was a life-sized horse sculpture standing in a sort of park. It was even crazier colors than red, and Rachel and Abby both stared at it as the van slowly went by. "I wonder how Belle is doing," Wilson said. Rachel took that bait and started wondering aloud if Sandra was taking care of the cat adequately. Wilson promised to let her talk to Sandra later for a personal update.

The van finally pulled into the funeral home after a short but eternal journey. The number of cars startled House. The whole lot next to the building was just about full, much more so than it had been for John's funeral. There were even a few other cripple cars in the disabled slots before the rental van joined them. The various doors started to open, but House sat still for a moment, wondering if it would all go away if he refused to get out. It wouldn't, of course. Stupid to indulge in wishful thinking. Besides, the girls would notice. He _had_ to do this. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Abby leaned over to him from Wilson's arms as soon as she was freed from the car seat. "Up, Dada!" she demanded. He took her left handed, wondering how much longer he would be able both to carry a girl and walk. Abby was still small, but she would only grow. He did take a moment to test his balance carefully on the cane before he took a step while holding her. He was okay. He could definitely feel the Ativan, numbing him out, smoothing off the edges a little, but it wasn't enough to affect his walking.

Rachel wiggled her way down, and Cuddy captured her hand firmly, but her daughter was only going as far as her father. She hugged his good leg, and he looked down at her. She looked puzzled. Abby, too, was watching him in concern. Damn it. Had to hold it together; he couldn't ruin this for them. "Come on," he snapped, sharper than he had intended.

They slowly entered the building, everyone else matching his pace. Once in the lobby, they turned toward the door of the room where Blythe's funeral obviously was. A river of conversation flowed out from it, inviting them in. The funeral director exited his office just then, coming across the lobby, and noticed them. "Gregory House." He came up quickly but didn't hold out a hand. House realized that having both Abby and a cane could pay unexpected dividends. At least he wouldn't have to be pawed at by a hundred people. He steeled himself for the trite words _I'm sorry_, but they never came. "And these must be your girls. I'm glad you and your family could make it. Such adorable children." He smiled at Abby and Rachel and then greeted the others in turn, but he stopped short when he came to Wilson. The professional front tightened up, and his eyes shifted toward another room off the lobby, then back to the oncologist. "I remember you, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson squirmed. This wasn't _fair_, damn it. To this man, looking back on John's funeral, House had been the respectable if grieving son, and Wilson was the dangerous loose-cannon friend who had thrown a bottle through a stained-glass window. He was supposed to be the safe, socially acceptable one. "Nice to see you again," he lied. He could almost see the thought bubble over the director's head, wondering what disruption Wilson might cause in his realm _this_ time. "Come on," Wilson urged, taking another step toward the funeral. "They'll be starting soon."

The director gave Wilson a firm look. "There's a row for the family reserved about half way back on the right. Mr. Thornton didn't think you'd want to be all the way down front." He then went on into the room, leaving the family to enter at their own pace.

House faced the door. Breathe. In, out. Had to keep it together for the next hour. He took a step, his legs both much stiffer suddenly. That wasn't the effect of the Ativan; that was pure dread. Cuddy switched to holding Rachel's hand with her right hand and put her left on her husband's arm, tightening the grip firmly, almost painfully, but he didn't mind. She was here. He knew he'd never be able to tell her adequately how much that meant, but she, even more than Ativan, gave him the strength to take another step forward.

They reached the doors. House stopped again in them, and the other three stopped in front of him as a shield. He gave one quick scan of the crowd, looking for Thornton, finding him alongside the wall. His father was looking straight at him. House quickly turned away.

Right leg, left leg. Two more steps. The people were all around, talking, someone down near the front laughing. He hadn't expected laughter. This might almost have been a social event, stories and knots of conversation filling the room.

Just then, they were spotted. Here came the crowd, surging up but trying not to run over them even so. Everyone was talking about the girls. Leaning on Cuddy as much as the cane, House made it down to the reserved row for them. Everybody slid in except Jensen, who said something about being back in a minute and headed for the casket at the front. Gratefully, House collapsed into the seat, Cuddy on the far end of the row on his right still with Rachel in tow. Wilson sat down on his left and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "This is so mixed up. That funeral director is wondering what stunt _I'm _going to pull next. Remember the bottle?" House gave him a weak smile, but it felt like his face fractured on the effort.

People. So many people. House was just waiting for the words, but to his amazement, they never came. Nobody said they were sorry. Not one person brought up the past. Several mentioned memories of Blythe, but they were good times, fond moments. Much of the conversation was on the girls. Rachel was pulled into answering their comments, though she still looked back at her father now and then. Abby hugged him tightly on the left, still looking concerned. Cuddy from the other side looked just as concerned and kept a tight grip on his arm. Jensen returned and sat down on the center aisle next to Marina.

After several minutes, the cluster around them dispersed, people finding seats for themselves, and House sat bolt upright, leaning against Cuddy and the Ativan, and focused everything he had simply on hanging on. There was a low hum audible in the back of his mind, like a distant swam of bees, but Cuddy kept his hand, and John was silent. His stomach started to hurt, a deep, twisting pain inside him, trying to break the stiffness and double him over, and he set his teeth against it.

Looking back, he eventually was to remember details from the funeral, like watching a home movie, as if his mind had been recording all the while from another position at the side and getting the big picture, but at the moment, he was only aware of Cuddy's hand, the threatening hum that he managed to hold at a distance, and the girls drifting in and out of his focus.

But the memories would surface later to fill in the gaps. The flowers. Incredible array of flowers, all colors, and the smell of them hovering in the room.

The eulogies, first a few formal ones, then opening up the floor to whomever wanted to share. People from the senior citizen's center. Patsy, the neighbor. Fellow volunteers. People from her travel club. Two children of roughly 6 and 8 from the adopt-a-grandparent program.

Nobody mentioned the past. No one mentioned John. But the stories about Blythe, her last few years, the influence she had had and the friend she had been, were alive.

The music. Abby perking up slightly and asking if he wanted to play the piano, too. The comment was audible for a few rows around, but nobody seemed annoyed at it.

Rachel sniffling against Cuddy's shoulder, and several tears running down Cuddy's own face.

The memories.

Finally, the service ended. The others drifted out respectfully with a few final words tossed their way, hands on his shoulder, other comments on the grandchildren. Thomas was last out besides their group, and House, turning to watch him leave, saw his worried look back as their eyes met briefly.

Then they were left alone. Alone besides Blythe at the front, that was. Cuddy leaned over to ask if he wanted to see her, and he shook his head fiercely. After a moment's hesitation, she passed him Rachel and said she would be right back, though she did give a few worried, guilty looks back on her way down the aisle, making sure the others stayed right there. She stood at the casket. A minute later, Rachel squirmed away and ran down the aisle by the wall to join her, and Cuddy picked her up and gave her a hug. House couldn't hear what Rachel said, but the tone would come back to him later. She didn't sound frightened or traumatized. She sounded like Rachel. Cuddy gave a low reply, and they came back to join the others.

House lurched painfully to his feet. He didn't want to see her, was determined that he _would not_ see her, not for the last time, but he couldn't help one quick look from their row halfway back. He could just see her hair and the edge of her face. She looked peaceful. He turned away so quickly he nearly lost his balance, and Cuddy and Wilson both gripped him to steady him. "Let's get out of here," he demanded harshly.

Abby, standing on the seat, reached up for him, and he picked her up, letting her hug him. She buried her face in his shoulder for a moment, then raised it to look toward the front herself as the group filed out of their row. "Bye bye," she said softly. Pain like a knife stabbed through House's stomach, but he managed to stay upright, managed to hold that hum at a distance.

Slowly, the group left the room, and House took a deep breath as they exited the building and reached open air. The crowd had dispersed quickly, granting them privacy, and there was only Thornton left as an anxious sentinel just outside. House sucked down the oxygen greedily and fought the urge to throw up.

He had made it.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: Here's the next chapter. The next one after this is another of my favorite scenes in this story.

Remember that Thomas did not select the funeral home. House did. Rather, House told Thomas to use the prepaid deal John had already arranged at that one, although revising service details to match Blythe's wishes instead of John's. Basically, House chose to leave John stuck with the bill instead of starting completely over from scratch. If you recall, though, there was one aspect of that service planning where Thomas was worried enough that he called for further instructions, and that was the grave site, though Thomas had never seen the whole thing himself (more there later).

Enjoy 32 and thanks for all the reviews. This chapter is a peak of sorts, but we have plenty of this story left on the windup with two and a half more days in Lexington and some interesting added factors, including lots of House/Thomas, Thomas/grandkids and House/Jensen.

(H/C)

Rachel spotted Thomas quickly as they came outside. "Hi, Thomas!"

"Hi, Rachel," he answered, but he was about as distracted from her as House had seen yet. He was totally focused on his son, though he didn't ask questions.

Cuddy was just as worried. Her husband almost looked physically ill. He was fighting so hard to hold it together, and she couldn't help being impressed at his heroic effort even while both concerned and exasperated at it.

"You see Grandma?" Rachel asked. She hadn't noticed Thornton inside, as the girls had been surrounded by other of Blythe's friends, and Thomas had deliberately been keeping his distance.

"Yes, I did," he replied.

Rachel was about as thoughtful as she got. "She looks better," she stated.

"Better?" Wilson couldn't help asking. Rachel nodded.

House wondered how on earth a dead body in a casket could be considered "better" by a 3-year-old or anybody else, and then it hit him. She was comparing to Wednesday morning, the last previous time she had caught a glimpse of Blythe, when his mother had been dead in bed, and House himself had been frantic to revive her, trying CPR, sternal thump, everything. That scene had been Rachel's former mental picture of her grandmother's exit, complete with her father freaking out just to make it more terrifying. Yes, even a casket amid flowers might be considered an improvement over that bedroom. What had he done to his girls?

He lurched into motion, stumbling slightly and catching himself even as Cuddy grabbed for his arm. Couldn't fall with Abby. He recovered his balance and limped toward the van. "Let's get out of here," he repeated.

"Okay, Greg." Cuddy carefully kept hold of his arm as they walked the short distance to the rental. House opened the passenger's door and passed off Abby to the first person available besides Cuddy, not even noticing that it was Thomas who was right at his left elbow, having moved up quickly when House tripped and stayed there just a step behind, ready if needed. Cuddy kept her tight grip on her husband's arm, helping him as much by presence as physical support as he climbed awkwardly into the van. She gave his hand a squeeze. "I'm going to go around and get in, okay?" she asked softly. He nodded, feeling pathetic as she let go. Marina had captured Rachel's hand from her on the walk. Cuddy did indeed make her best time around the front of the van, climbing in the driver's seat and picking up House's hand again. The others were left to deal with the children.

Abby, abruptly finding herself held by Thomas, did not struggle but studied his face up close as if running an analysis. He recognized that look. _How_ he recognized that look. He had seen it in pictures of Greg occasionally, but he had seen it a thousand times in real life on his own father. The past was alive again. He took a deep breath. "You need to get all buckled in, Abby," he told her. "Your Mom and Dad probably want to get back to the hotel." House jumped and looked over at him, realizing for the first time who had been on the other end of that blind kid hand-off.

Wilson opened the sliding door. "Come on, girls. In you go. Come here, Abby."

Rachel shook her head and tried to climb into the van herself. "Me _first_." She had had the car seat directly behind her mother on the drive over and now considered that spot her rightful property. Thomas grinned through the worry, and Marina gave Rachel a boost up, then followed her across, getting her fastened firmly in. Once they were set, Thomas handed Abby to Wilson, and the oncologist buckled her into her seat. He then wedged himself through the gap into the very back seat, and Jensen followed.

Thomas shut the door with its thick, sliding thud, a firm barrier falling into place between the others and himself. He knew there wasn't any chance of a group lunch today. Greg looked like he felt sick even without the suggestion of food. He was fighting so hard to be strong when what he really needed was to let go, but it would be the others he turned to when he finally did, not Thomas, not yet. Once more, Thomas was left on the outside. The awareness settled around his shoulders like a blanket.

Rachel waved at him through the window as the van started, and he waved back at her. Abby was still watching him with those eyes. He stood until they pulled out of the lot, then walked slowly to his own rental car, and at that moment, he felt every year of his 75. There might have been far too many funerals in his life, but he realized with a jolt that this was the first one he had ever left alone.

(H/C)

It was a party of four, not seven, as the van pulled into the cemetery at 1:30. Back at the suite, they had ordered room service for lunch, though House had managed only one bite. He looked so sick on that one that Cuddy hadn't tried to encourage him for more, though she did note with relief and concern mixed that he at least skipped the anti-inflammatories with his noon meds. After that, they played with the girls a little, and Rachel got her promised call on Wilson's cell phone for a Belle report. The girls were still worried and keeping an eye on their father, but they had had a wearing emotional morning themselves, and they fell asleep just before time to leave. Marina was left on duty with them, and the other four headed out to the burial.

Thornton's car was already there, parked at the side of the little road right behind the hearse, and his father was just getting out. House rolled his eyes. "So much for keeping a distance so people won't wonder," he snapped, forgetting that the others hadn't heard that promise from this morning.

"Nobody's here to notice, Greg," Cuddy reassured him. She couldn't blame Thomas. He _had_ obviously been staying away at the funeral in front of the crowd, but every time she had met his eyes, the worried longing in them was painful. He wanted so much to be there for his son. "This is just the funeral home people, and they already know he made the arrangements." She looked over at the small group at the graveside. "And the pastor of the church Blythe went to sometimes." She had been impressed with his comments this morning. "I guess he's going to be reading a verse or something."

"Empty superstition," House snapped. Bits and pieces of that eulogy drifted back as if at a distance; the man had sounded like he truly cared. House was surprised to know that Blythe had been going to church, but he did remember that pastors are expected to maintain confidentiality on what they learn about families in the course of their duties, just like doctors. If this man wondered where Thornton fit in, he hopefully at least would do it solo and keep his mouth shut around her other friends.

The van doors opened, and the group slowly spilled out. House kept his head down and watched his feet, trying to avoid looking at the canopy as long as he could. He prepared mentally for what he knew he would see, the casket waiting there poised over the hole. Few people, at least. He had survived the crowd, and this wouldn't take nearly as long as the funeral.

It had been Thornton's idea to have the burial private, he remembered. Cuddy had been sure to tell him that after Thornton had called her to ask about the grave. Another ember of reluctant gratitude flared up, and he tried his best mentally to stomp it down.

Left foot, right foot. He limped slowly forward. The pain in his stomach had been worsening since the funeral, and it now felt like streaks of fire. He held himself stiffly upright against it, posture painfully rigid, only head bent.

They reached the canopy. Thornton was standing there along with the pastor and the funeral director, looking straight at him. There was a row of chairs set up, and as Cuddy gently nudged him toward one, he finally made himself look at the casket.

The hole at least wasn't visible, hidden discretely beneath the lowering mechanism, but beyond the casket, he could see the stone. A large double stone, obviously preordered by John back before his own funeral. Blythe's side simply had her name, date of birth, and a waiting gap for date of death. John's side had much more.

Around the four corners of his half, the emblem of the Marines appeared four times, and the words in the middle were writ large. John House was followed by date of birth and date of death. On the three lines below that were United States Marine Corps, Pilot, and Semper Fi. Below those appeared Husband and Father.

House jolted to a stop, staring at it. The others were staring at him at first, and then Thornton turned and followed his fixed gaze.

The distant hum in the back of House's mind burst into sudden, present attack, right on top of him. John was laughing. Laughing at him from beyond the grave. He could almost see his father standing there, looming over him, prolonging action like a cat toying with a mouse, just as he so often had done in life.

House spun so quickly he would have fallen over had not Thomas and Cuddy caught him. He pushed his father away and limped back toward the van desperately, as near as he could get to running, trying futilely to escape, but John followed, the old, familiar words right at his ears now. He reached the van, surging around the far side, the scene blocked by its sturdy bulk, but the soundtrack remained. He leaned against the van and closed his eyes.

Cuddy. She was still there, he realized, and she was saying something, though it took a minute for the words to soak through. "Get in, Greg." She opened the door and helped him up, having to provide most of the physical effort herself that time. Once he was in the passenger's seat, she actually climbed right up beside him, careful of his leg but nestling down against him, her presence reassuringly real in a fit tight enough that even the ghosts were crowded. She closed the door on the world and held him tightly.

"Shut UP!" House shouted, his eyes still closed.

In the next moment, her own voice, even louder, filled the van. "Yes, SHUT UP! You damned coward! You're never going to win no matter what you do. He already beat you." Her arm around House's shoulder was so tight it hurt. "You're in hell where you belong, you son of a bitch, and he's moved on. Nothing you try now will ever change that."

House opened his eyes and looked at her, startled. "You already beat him, Greg. He can't do anything now." She kissed him fiercely, trying to break through the mental onslaught, and slowly, in wonder, he started to respond. John's voice gradually faded, dying back to a hum, then dying completely.

The pain in his stomach was still there, threatening to burn a hole through him, and his breathing was still jagged. Cuddy broke the kiss, sensing that the ghosts had departed, and hugged him tightly. "Greg," she urged him, "just let go."

He shook his head, but self control was slipping unwillingly through his clenched hands, disappearing faster and faster until he was left holding nothing.

Finally, the storm broke. He dove at her as if clutching for a life preserver, and she was there, her hands as steady as his were shaking, not minding the tears that were soaking her designer blouse. She was there, and the anchor held.

He didn't know how long it was. It might have been forever. The first thing he was aware of beyond her was the sunlight, warm through the windows on him. He blinked and pulled away a little to look around.

The other cars were gone. There was no sign of Jensen or Wilson. "Thomas must have taken them back to the hotel," Cuddy said, reading the thought.

He sighed. "Guess I did blow things after all."

She shut him up in the best way possible, and after a minute, when their lips had separated again, she shook her head. "What's the point of a burial, Greg?"

He rolled his eyes, suddenly looking reassuringly more like himself. "To get a body underground."

"Exactly. Tell me, how did you ruin that? She's buried, Greg. It happened anyway. Doesn't look ruined to me."

He sniffled and raised his sleeve, and it was her turn to roll her eyes. Freezing him with a look, she pulled a wad of Kleenex out of her purse and handed it over. "Do it the right way, damn it."

He was absurdly reassured by the words. "Slave driver. Anybody ever tell you you're a bossy control freak?" He blew his nose.

"I think I've heard that somewhere before." She leaned over and kissed him again. "It's okay, Greg. It's all going to be okay. Eventually."

"I freaked out the girls," he remembered. "Last Wednesday morning. That's what Rachel meant, that Mom looked better now."

"But Rachel was reassured when she said it. She won't have to remember that image as the last time she saw her. She'll be all right, Greg, and so will you. The grief will be there for a while, but it does get better."

He shuddered, remembering Wednesday morning himself, the desperation, the refusal to believe it even with medical knowledge, as if he could pull his mother back by stubbornness alone. Cuddy hugged him more tightly, and unwillingly, he remembered that last glimpse this morning from a distance. She _had_ looked better than Wednesday morning, at least.

The last glimpse. Forever.

The tears were shorter this time, at least. He blew his nose again at the end and grumbled, "You ever tell anybody about this, I'll deny it. And steal your underwear and put it on display in the faculty lounge."

She smiled. "You're safe with me, Greg." The girls would need words here and there from him in the coming weeks, but they would need them from their father himself, not as a tale from Cuddy, and she thought they would sense he was feeling better anyway. She wouldn't have to give him away. "It's going to be all right, Greg. One thing, though."

He looked at her, his blue eyes steadier now, even if bloodshot. "What?"

"Please talk to Jensen. I don't mean today, but going on. Tell him you feel guilty about this. Don't deny what you're feeling; he can help."

He looked out the windshield. His stomach had finally stopped hurting. "He feels guilty, too."

"Yes, which is why you two can help each other. It won't just be one-sided this time. But talk to him, okay?"

He looked at his watch. It wasn't that late after all. "We need to get back to the hotel for the girls," he said, but the dodge itself was an unspoken promise, and she heard it.

"Okay." She gave him one last kiss, then opened the door, not insisting on prolonging the moment. She dropped neatly to the ground, graceful even in heels, then gave his arm a squeeze and closed the door, heading around to the driver's side.

"One thing you need to do," he countered as she climbed in.

"What?" she asked, her hand pausing halfway to starting the van.

"Call Patterson tonight and talk about things yourself," he told her.

She nodded. "I will once you're asleep." She reached for the key again, and his left hand shot out suddenly, claiming hers. He held on tightly, his fingers wrapped around her own, though he didn't say anything. After a minute, he let go, and she started the van and drove out of the cemetery.


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: Quick update because it was already written down. This scene, which is a favorite in the story, was worked on for a day or two in there last week before my friend's life celebration service when I had a few writing slots available but didn't feel like doing Blythe's funeral. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

The girls had just woken up when House and Cuddy got back to the hotel room. House couldn't believe it was still the same day. So short a time since they had left after lunch; eternity compressed into not quite two hours. The girls were looking for them, a little uneasy at both being gone, but they were still listening to Marina and letting her reassure them. Their smiles as their parents entered the suite were like sunshine breaking through clouds.

Wilson and Jensen turned up before too long, of course. They wanted to make sure he was all right, although they didn't say so. Nobody mentioned the scene at the grave, to House's relief. As far as he was concerned, even when he eventually got into his feelings over Blythe's death in sessions, he didn't want to _ever_ talk about freaking out at the grave, although he doubted Jensen would let him get away with it forever. For now, though, he just wanted to ignore what had happened and spend the rest of the afternoon with his girls. Annoyingly, House found that he _was_ feeling better. His stomach had stopped hurting, and he didn't feel as much like his shoulders were about to break. But he was still embarrassed at what had happened. At least only Cuddy had seen the worst of it, and she actually thought it was a _good_ thing.

But the rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough, everyone playing with the girls and talking about anything except the funeral. The girls seemed to be feeling better themselves, bright and frisky this evening, more as usual than they had been any day since Blythe's death. When it came time to start thinking about feeding them, Cuddy asked House if he wanted to go down to the dining room, either with all of them or just the adults later, but he vetoed that without hesitation. No way did he want to face Thornton and see the disappointment in his eyes. Assuming Thornton was even still here; maybe he had checked out after what he'd seen and was returning to his own life.

So they ordered room service for everyone. House still didn't have much appetite, even without the stomach knots, but nobody pushed him. They ate an early dinner, played with the girls a little longer, and then Marina and Cuddy got Rachel and Abby down to bed. They were too tired to protest tonight after this day.

Wilson had just suggested finding a movie on pay-per-view when a polite but definite knock came on the door. House sighed. "Fantastic. No prize for guessing who that is." Thornton, no doubt, come to inspect his disappointing son and say goodbye in person.

Cuddy was still on her feet, having just come out of the girls' bedroom, and she went to the door. It was Thornton, as predicted, with a sort of notepad tucked under one arm. "Hi, Thomas," she said.

"May I come in?" he asked. She didn't look at her husband so she technically wouldn't see him veto the suggestion. Instead, she stepped back and opened the door fully. Thomas deserved reassurance as much as Wilson and Jensen did, and he wasn't going to start anything. She was to realize within the first minute that she had been wrong about that.

Thornton walked in. House looked at his watch. 7:15. Thornton had given up very quickly on his dining room stake-out tonight. "You're too late," House snapped, not facing him. "The girls just went to bed, so you'll have to get a fix somewhere else."

"I know they just went to bed; that's why I waited. I wanted to see you," Thomas replied, but there was no judgment in the tone. House couldn't resist looking up at him then, just for a moment. No disappointment in the eyes, either, only pure compassion. House looked away, unable to believe it. Thomas gave him a long moment as he studied his son carefully, gauging. Then he pushed on. "I have a suggestion for you, Greg."

That at least drew his son's eyes back to him. "Oh, I can't _wait_ to hear this."

Thomas didn't react to the sarcasm. "Why don't you replace John's part of the tombstone?"

It was the first time since the scene in the van that anybody had even approached mentioning what happened at the cemetery to him. House lashed out before the words had fully settled. "Why don't I _replace_ it? It's not that simple. I . . ." He skidded to a halt in mid scathe as the idea crystallized.

"It _is_ that simple," Thomas countered. "That much, anyway. Who's going to stop you? It's yours now, Greg, and you can have whatever you like as a marker. People make _improvements_ to their family plots all the time. The way that stone is set up, John's half could be cut off easily by a stone company without affecting hers and just replaced to make it two singles. It didn't have the name clear across the top like some of them do."

The eyes met, father and son, and the similarity between their expressions was suddenly very marked as the wheels sprang into parallel motion. Wilson, feeling as if he were seeing double, spoke up quickly from the sidelines before this plot went too far. "I do think there are some public decency laws that apply here. You couldn't get too accurate."

Thomas shrugged. "So you'd have to be subtle instead of blatant. That's more fun anyway." The gleam in his eyes was very familiar just then, even if transplanted into a different face. This was the plotter, and Wilson remembered Jensen's words again. _He's being nice . . . he can turn the tables any time he wants to. _He was glad it was John, not himself, in the crosshairs this time.

House grinned for just a moment before remembering himself. Thomas sat down in a free armchair. "Any monument company can take a design and make it into a custom stone for you. They even have an artist available to consult who could draw it up for you if you bounced your ideas off him. Or I could sketch it out myself and save you the extra fee."

House looked at him skeptically. "So you're an _artist, _too?"

"I've always had a knack for sketching," Thornton answered. "That's hereditary, too. _My _grandfather, the one we called Grandpa Tom, was an artist for a newspaper. He lived in Chicago, and back then, there were a lot of places, like courtrooms, for instance, where cameras weren't allowed yet. Every large paper had artists who would sketch scenes on site. Grandpa covered courts and other news events in Chicago for years until he retired. That jumped a generation, like the music. Dad was musical but couldn't draw. I can draw and never could do music. But artistic talent, in whatever form, runs pretty straight."

The bedroom door opened at that point, and they looked up to see Marina standing there. "Are the girls all right?" Cuddy asked.

She nodded, looking from Thornton to House. Everyone was silent. She reluctantly turned away. "I'll be in here if you need me."

"Thank you, Marina," Cuddy called. The door closed.

"You never did anything professionally with it, though," House noted.

A cloud of regret crossed Thomas' face, but it was swift moving. He'd swallowed the bitterness of that pill long since. "I wanted to. When I was young, I was going to be an artist. I remember being fascinated watching Grandpa Tom draw, and he always _really_ looked at my sketches when I was a young kid. Never dismissed them as something 'cute' or just kid's doodling. He'd give me a critique on them, even had suggestions for how to do things better, but he always explained the parts he liked, too, and why he liked them. It was serious feedback. He gave me my first official sketch pad and pens. I kept practicing after he died, but then when my parents were killed and we went to Cincinnati, my uncle disapproved of it. That wasn't _practical,_ and he never lost a chance to tell me it would never work out and I wasn't that good and could never make a living at it. Besides, it couldn't be a career anymore for anybody because society had advanced past that_._ His biggest pet subject was being a responsible provider for your family and not just wasting time on what you _wanted_ instead of what would pay best. He thought Dad had failed there and also hadn't drilled it into us enough. I was so discouraged on everything right then, I let him win."

House was watching him, the lines of his face softer now. The other three adults were fascinated by this family history, but they had the sense to stay on the sidelines. "So you're an artist, but you're 50 years out of practice?" House asked.

Thomas shook his head. "I got back into it in the Marines of all places. It helped a lot there. Think of how many places and situations where it would be very suspicious to pull out a camera and take a picture, but if you could draw later the people and things you had seen, that still would get the information across. I became very good at quick sketches of people, and since leaving the service, I've done other things, too, just as a way to unwind at times. If you'd like, Greg, I'll work out some of your ideas on a better stone for John, and you could see them immediately to make changes. That would be a lot faster coming up with a final version than working long distance with an artist at a monument company." Another quick shadow passed across his expression for a moment, and Cuddy suddenly knew that Thomas had designed Emily's stone himself and with much more than just her name.

House considered it. "Show me something you did," he requested after a moment. Not that designing an appropriate stone for John would push anybody's artistry much, but he was curious.

Thornton opened the notepad he held to the first page and stretched out from his chair to hand it over. It was a black-and-white sketch of Rachel. Cuddy, who had sat back down next to her husband on the couch, leaned over to share in surveying it. Not elaborate, but the attitude was captured perfectly, the curiosity, wanting to get down and run, even the airport terminal suggested behind them. "That's really good," she said. House gave a grunt and flipped the page. The next one was Abby, and the page after that was House and Cuddy together. That one wasn't set in the last day by background but was a general portrait. Cuddy smiled looking at it. "May I have these, Thomas?"

"Of course. I can draw more. I did a few sketches of all of you this afternoon after we got back now that I know what the girls look like."

He hadn't known what the girls looked like. It struck Cuddy with renewed force, even greater for the fact that he was an artist, that he enjoyed drawing faces, and yet he had had no faces to fill in those blanks. He hadn't even known how to start drawing his granddaughters until this trip. She felt tears well up suddenly and looked down, not wanting to set off her husband.

He noticed anyway, of course, and gave her hand a brief squeeze, although his tone was exasperated. "Oh, knock it off. You women, always getting sentimental about things." He flinched as he promptly remembered outdoing all of the women in tears earlier today, and he quickly flipped through the remaining filled pages. A few more of the two of them and the girls, including one of all four of them together. One portrait of a woman he'd never seen who he realized had to be Emily, Thomas' wife. He looked at her face for a while, wondering how things might have been different had he been raised on the other side. This could have been his mother, and he would have been Timothy Thornton III, probably turning his younger brother into another Thomas unless his father decided to break the shackles of tradition and discover another letter. She looked kind but humorous. That was the last one.

House tore off the filled pages except for that last one and handed the sketches to Cuddy before returning the notepad to Thomas. Jensen, on the other side of House on the couch, had seen the drawings, too, and at this point, Cuddy took pity on Wilson, who looked like he was physically holding himself in the other armchair to keep from disrupting the moment by jumping up just to satisfy his curiosity. She handed the pages to him, and he went through them one at a time, impressed.

House meanwhile had actually started thinking about what would be a suitable marker for John. "I suppose a 6-foot giant middle finger is out of the question."

Thomas laughed. "Love the concept, but no, the cemetery probably wouldn't accept that one. I'll draw you one, though, just for practice." He started sketching, propping the pad on his knee, working amazingly quickly. House, watching, noticed his hands. Blythe had said his touch was unlike anything else she had known. Of course, she was comparing to John, so the bar was set incredibly low for that experience. Still, House wondered.

Thomas finished his drawing and handed it across the gap. House and Cuddy both started laughing, and Jensen leaned over more to join in the joke. Giving up any pretense of restraint, Wilson came to his feet and walked around behind the couch to see the pad.

The drawing was a gigantic hand, middle finger extended, the others curled down forming the writing surface. John House was written in half-buried letters at the very bottom, still legible but missing a good proportion of it. Far larger were the words above that. "I win, Jackass."

House was openly smiling now. "That's perfect. Too bad we can't use it." He started to hand the pad back, then paused and tore that sheet off, keeping it for himself. "I do like the half-buried letters. Maybe there's a three-word tribute that starts with the letters SOB that could be spelled out with emphasis. Or dead roses as a border."

"Skull and crossbones?" Wilson suggested.

"Definitely remove all the stuff he put on there. Husband, father, Marine. Bullshit." Thomas looked relieved, and House jumped into attack mode. "_That's_ why you want me to redo the stone. It's the Marine reference, right? That's what gets your back up."

Thomas met his look without flinching. "The part about the Marines is an offense to me, but it's not the only one nor the largest." Father and son locked into a one-sided glare-off for a moment, skepticism nose to nose with sincerity, and then House dodged away, changing the subject.

"I wonder why he didn't have House in gigantic letters all the way across the double stone. Why not make a big deal out of the one thing that wasn't a lie?"

Jensen tilted his head, considering it. "That _is_ interesting. Probably as inadequate as he felt in the other three departments, it was the name deep down that still bothered him most. I'd bet his father's tombstone had House carved in huge letters. To John, to do the same thing with his own stone and claim his father's example at the end might have been such a lie he couldn't bring himself to it."

"That was certainly some interesting background on his father," Thomas put in.

Wilson sighed. "Of course. Even _you_ already know what they're talking about." Wilson had no idea who John's father was or why that mattered, but he knew he was once again at the tail end of the information chain.

House's thoughts unwillingly returned to the story of Charles and his young son. First a hero absent father who was presumed dead and then a shattered present one who had most likely been abusive himself as he fought his own demons. Damn it, House refused to feel sorry for John. Whatever the man's father had or hadn't been, it wasn't an excuse. But suddenly, having the last word over John seemed hollow somehow, this game losing its flavor.

He knew exactly what John's tombstone needed to be. "Just the name," he said softly, staring at his hands.

Cuddy had been busy glaring at Wilson, conveying the message in flaming darts that tonight was not the night to expand Wilson's education on background, but she quickly looked back at her husband. "Just the name?" she repeated.

He nodded. "John House. In the middle, not half buried letters, but with nothing else there. Just the name." That much _wasn't_ a lie, but nothing had ever been done with it by John, either. The stone truly should be mostly blank.

Thomas' eyes were shining. "Well done, Greg," he said warmly. House looked up, startled at the clear pride in his voice.

"Yes, well done," Jensen echoed. Thomas watched in pure longing as Greg turned to look at him briefly, not to challenge but to feel the warmth of the words. From Jensen, he accepted praise, at least at this moment. Thomas tried to remind himself that that, too, had probably taken a good while.

House sighed. The rest of the thought was right there, just waiting to be completed. If John's elaborate stone needed to be redesigned plain, Blythe's plain one needed an upgrade. "I need to redo Mom's side, too," he said. "She . . . she deserves that." A visible tremor ran through him.

Jensen took over, stepping in firmly. "That's enough for tonight," he insisted. His voice was sharp and a little louder than necessary. The tone drew everybody's attention, and he could feel Thornton's eyes weighing his own abrupt leap in tension, coming to lightning-swift conclusions. But damn it, this time, Jensen would act on his judgment no matter how the rest of them felt about it. Thornton was trying to be careful, and House had been in the spirit of the game for a while, but his mood had shifted in the last few minutes. He was hitting the limit. They were _not_ going on tonight, period, and that resolve was carved in granite itself. Nobody challenged the psychiatrist, and after a moment, he made himself ease up.

There was an awkward pause, not of resistance to Jensen's decree but simply a vacuum waiting to be filled. Thomas put his sketch pad away, but he didn't offer to leave. Wilson finally spoke up. "Right before you came, we were thinking about finding a movie on pay-per-view." He studied Thornton as the thought occurred to him. "We ate a little while ago. Have you eaten yet?"

Thomas shook his head. "That's okay, though. I'm not really hungry."

"Nope, we have to order you something, and you can eat while we watch the movie. Trust me; I'm a doctor. It's very unhealthy to just skip meals." Wilson headed for the phone and picked up the card with the number for room service as he turned. "What do you want?" His eyes made a miniscule shift to the back of House's head.

Thomas got the message instantly, loud and clear. "Actually, I wouldn't mind a burger and fries. I am hungry now that I think about it. Thank you for asking."

"Anybody else want dessert or something? They had some key lime pie on the menu last night. We already ate, but I'd like a slice of that and maybe some fries. Cuddy? Jensen? House?"

Cuddy and Jensen both promptly ordered dessert, and Jensen also added fries. House after a moment ordered pie himself. Wilson called down, carefully concealing his satisfaction. House had barely finished one complete meal today out of all three combined he'd been present at. He really did need some more fuel. Hopefully he would relax enough to graze some during the movie while everybody else was.

Once the call was made, Cuddy stood up. "I'm going to go check on the girls. You boys pick a movie while we're waiting for room service to get here." She started for the bedroom and smiled as Thomas and Wilson started a movie differential behind her.

Marina was in a chair reading a book, and the girls were sleeping peacefully. Cuddy touched them gently, not wanting to wake them up but feeling a surge of pride. They had handled today so well. "We'll be watching a movie if you need anything," she said.

The nanny closed her book as Cuddy turned away from the girls, and she spoke softly enough that the words pulled Cuddy right up to her side. "That's his father," she stated. Cuddy nodded. No point in denying it when they confirmed it in person themselves. "So where has he been?" Marina asked.

Cuddy sighed. She could have just insisted it was none of Marina's business, but the thing was, Thomas' character really _was_ Marina's business inasmuch as it affected the girls and even House. The nanny cared deeply about all of them by this point. "He did follow life from a distance, as much as he could, up until about three years ago. Then his wife got very ill, and he was tied up dealing with issues with her until last summer, when he saw the media on the trial."

"She died." Marina confirmed the sad edge on Cuddy's tone.

"Yes. He obviously loved her deeply, and he says that just consumed him the last few years. He wasn't uninterested in his son, but he didn't realize anything had changed."

"So he's all alone now?" Marina asked. Cuddy nodded, and the nanny looked thoughtful. "He seems all right so far," she said finally, "but . . ."

"Exactly. Thomas is a good man, Marina, but there's a lot of background to process. Don't push Greg on this, okay?"

Marina gave her a conspiratorial look. "He wants it himself, I think. He'd deny that, of course. These men!"

Cuddy laughed. "I think he does. Now, please, drop it. And of course, the girls are not to know, not until he decides."

"Or they work it out," Marina filled in. "They're bright little girls. He'd better process things quickly." She smiled and picked her book back up. "All right, Dr. Cuddy. Good night."

"Good night."

Cuddy left the bedroom. The movie had been selected, and she sat back down by her husband and picked up his hand again. He was more relaxed than earlier, even with Thomas pushing him a bit on John. She had to give Thomas credit there; none of the rest of them would have dared to raise the subject tonight, but he had managed to make it a challenge to draw his son in. Simply turning up to invite himself to their evening and movie in order to check on his son would more likely have drawn an attack out of pure stress redirection.

Room service arrived, and they started the movie. Thomas was much quieter than his son in watching movies, but his comments when he did make them were equally perceptive, if less acerbic. House managed to finish off his piece of pie and half of Jensen's fries, and the evening passed remarkably peacefully as if the world were catching its breath after today. Cuddy could tell her husband was more aware of his physical pain levels by the end, though. All the other emotional noise had finally let up enough for that voice to be heard, and he had missed several of his meds today. She wondered if she could talk him into a small dose of morphine tonight.

Once the movie ended, Thomas stood up promptly. "I'll say goodnight. It's been a long day. Thank you." He took two steps toward the door, then stopped and turned back. "Greg."

House looked up at him. His eyes were a window filled with suspicion, weariness, and pain, but at least they met Thomas' steadily this time without the glaring challenge. "What?" he asked. Jensen tensed up slightly but didn't say anything.

Thomas switched into German. "I had never seen that stone before because it was still being carved at the time of John's funeral. I never would have let you walk into that blind. I should have gone to inspect the grave in the last few days, though, and I didn't think of it. Should have known there might be something odd since _he_ set it up. I apologize for that failure."

House stared at him, caught off guard. It actually hadn't occurred to him that his father might have seen the stone and simply set him up for the fun of it, and he had never expected in any of his earlier scenarios of disappointment that Thornton would take the blame and apologize to him for this afternoon. "Good night," Thomas said. He hesitated, then added, "I'm proud of you."

He turned away softly, and he was gone.


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: Yes, Thomas' entire words at the end of last chapter were in German. About Marina, she isn't segregated constantly from the adults; it's implied that she was expecting to join them when she came out of the bedroom. But at that moment, House definitely wouldn't have wanted her there as they discussed even indirectly what happened at the grave. Marina will have her turns coming up with Thomas and the rest of the group in future chapters.

Short Saturday update. Next chapter or possibly two is assorted phone conversations later that evening with Cuddy with her shrink, Jensen with his, post funeral wrap-up. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Cuddy closed the bedroom door firmly, sealing off the world, as House limped over to the bed and inspected it blankly. "The sweats you were wearing last night are folded up next to the main suitcase," Cuddy informed him. House rolled his eyes. He, of course, had stuffed them under the pillow and not even entirely that; parts had been sticking out.

"Control freak," he repeated as he went to retrieve them. "The world wouldn't end with something out of place for a day." He grabbed them and headed for the bathroom, and Cuddy immediately followed. "A little _privacy _would be nice," he grumbled.

She looked startled at first, then understanding, and her smile lit up her face. "Okay," she replied. "It's all yours."

"Just for a minute. Let me get through before you take forever. When the girls get older and there's three of you, I'm going to have to make a reservation if I ever want to get into a bathroom in my own house." He shut the door, then hesitated and reopened it about three inches. He stood, tense, waiting.

Nothing. The only voice in his head right now was the demanding but familiar one of his leg. He limped carefully away from the door and clear across the large bathroom.

Nothing.

The matching smile to Cuddy's appeared since there was nobody to see it. He pulled out Thornton's folded drawing from his pocket and read it again. _I win, Jackass._ He folded it back up, putting it in his wallet, then moved over to the toilet. After he had peed, he sat down on the closed lid for better access to take his shoes off and slowly started getting undressed. Odd; he'd barely been aware of his leg for much of today. It was making up for being ignored now.

Thornton. The man had infuriated him at first tonight, coming over specifically to bring up the cemetery - yet he hadn't even mentioned House's own emotional breakdown. The whole topic had centered on replacing the stone, which really _had_ been a good idea. Indeed, the fact that he as nominal son now owned the rights to John's grave and could revise it as he liked hadn't occurred to House. That it had occurred to Thornton promised an interesting sneaky streak. And then he had even apologized at the end and even sounded like he meant it. A quadruple amputee could have counted on digits the number of times John had given House a sincere apology about anything.

He had to be careful. The girls were going to get attached, especially Rachel with that enticing horse. He needed to come to his own conclusions about Thornton quickly while there was still time to back out. Could the man actually be sincere?

"Greg?" Cuddy called. She was trying to shield the worry in her voice. He pulled on his sleeping sweats, retrieved his pill bottles from his pockets, deliberately left his clothes in a tangle in the middle of the bathroom floor just to rile her a little, and limped out.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just going through the bathroom. You don't have to beat the door down." He couldn't totally hide the smile, though, and she saw it.

"As long as everything's okay," she said. There was a slight question on the end. She knew, but she wanted the words, too.

"I'm fine," he repeated without the sarcastic edge. She embraced him. It was his leg, of course, that shortened the kiss. She was as aware of his pain levels at the moment as he was.

"Would you like a massage?" she asked.

He nodded, surrendering. It would make her feel better, after all. It would help him, too - he thought at times that she had magical hands - but he doubted even she would get his leg settled down tonight. He limped to the bed, which she had turned down while he was in the bathroom changing. It took both hands and a grunt to swing his leg up. He lay back, and she started working on the offended thigh.

"Marina knows who Thomas is," she told him. "She had a couple of questions when I went in there to check the girls."

He sighed. "He already told me this morning that she'd worked it out. I was hoping he was wrong. Let me guess; she likes him, too."

"The jury is still out, I think, but she likes him so far. She was just surprised. She just wanted to know where he'd been all of your life."

House had wondered the same thing himself ever since childhood. Of course, he'd thought in his childhood assessment at first that Thornton had worked out what was going on and had left him deliberately because he didn't care, and even when he'd questioned that later, he'd still thought that Thornton _should_ have worked it out. But his father had only visited ten times in House's childhood. It was the early days he had seen at length, that first year before he was transferred. If he really had fallen for John's early attitude, that changed the picture. It still didn't change what had happened, though.

John's attitude. House himself had misread John at first, and that had been a major topic the last few months with Jensen. The idea that his stepfather had ever loved him was a very difficult pill to swallow. He shook his head and tried to wrench his thoughts to something else other than John. He was too tired to be having mental reruns of his sessions with Jensen tonight.

Jensen. The man still didn't quite seem himself, even after accepting House's apology. He needed to talk to Jensen, not just for him but for Jensen's sake, too. But not tonight.

"You know," he said, "about Thornton being my father, I never have actually run a DNA test." He broke off as Cuddy started laughing. "It's not _that_ funny," he insisted. "What happened once may have happened again and Mom just took the easy answer I knew already instead of admitting to another affair. Hell, she was living with John. I couldn't have blamed her. But with Thornton, there's still no hard scientific proof."

Cuddy finally got control of herself. "Greg, if you want to bet on that, if the results were negative, I'd do a strip dance in the lobby at PPTH." He stared at her. "Is this helping?" Cuddy asked. Her hands were never still, trying their best to soothe his mutilated leg.

"Some," he answered. It was, but only some. It wasn't helping enough tonight, not after all the muscular tension and inadequate meds of this eternal day.

She stopped. "Greg, please, let's use the morphine tonight. It would help reset the pain levels while you rest."

He resisted only briefly. He really did dislike the more powerful drugs that clouded his mind. Tonight, though, she was right, and he knew it. His leg wasn't going to ease up without a reboot.

Cuddy fixed the injection from the meds bag while he fished out the sleeping pill. He looked at the Ativan bottle, even though he wasn't taking any of that tonight, and remembering the funeral earlier today, he shuddered. He did feel better tonight, though, leg aside.

A horrifying thought gripped him as Cuddy brought the syringe over. "You _were_ in there for a few minutes with Marina. You didn't tell her what happened at the cemetery, did you?"

"No," she promised. "I told you before, Greg; your secret is safe with me."

He relaxed a little. At least Marina didn't know he'd flipped out at the grave. Nice to have one person who didn't; Wilson, Jensen, Thornton, the funeral director, and the pastor were more than enough to complete the list of the informed.

And Cuddy. There throughout today, going through all of it with him. He studied her face as she gave him the shot. "You need to call Patterson," he reminded her.

"Soon as you're asleep, I will." She put the needle into the small jar she'd brought along as a sharps container, put away everything, and closed the bag again. Then she came around to her side of bed and climbed in to hold him until he was out.

He settled into her arms. "Left my clothes on the bathroom floor," he confessed. "Sorry."

She kissed him. "I'll forgive you. _This _time." Her grip around him tightened. "I'm proud of you."

His brow furrowed. The exact same words Thornton had spoken. He never tired of hearing them from her, but this time, he tried to run a differential, to compare all the layers of her tone to Thornton's, looking for the difference. "Say that again," he demanded.

"I'm proud of you."

"Again." She complied. The morphine was swirling through his mind. Couldn't think straight. He couldn't sort the two columns out properly, not at the moment, but he needed to. Had to work quickly. The girls. "Again," he said thickly.

"I'm proud of you." Her hands, still felt at a distance. "I'm proud . . ."

He sailed away on the river of her voice.


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: Brief update as a Sunday morning insomnia special. Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

Cuddy continued holding her husband for a few minutes even after she was sure he was out, just watching him. The relief was overwhelming. They had survived today, and he had finally broken down and let himself cry. In the final wrap-up, today hadn't just been endurance but progress. She smiled, remembering his expression before he fell asleep. Even exhausted and drugged on top of that, he was still obviously trying to run some mental differential. Probably on Thomas. But to the end, House refused to stop _thinking_. She wondered what his dreams must be like, not the nightmares, but simply everyday dreams. He probably solved medical mysteries or built pyramids or something even in sleep.

Thinking of Thomas, she reached for her cell phone. Patterson was in line, too, but Patterson was expecting a post-funeral call tonight once House was asleep and would wait. Cuddy wanted to catch Thomas before he went to bed. He had to be exhausted himself from this day, and he was 75, after all. She dialed.

He answered promptly, not sounding sleepy at all. "Hi, Lisa."

"Hi, Thomas. I just wanted to thank you again for setting up today. Thank you so much. We never could have survived all this without you." She had been so busy the last few days simply dealing with House and the girls that she couldn't see how she might have fit in making arrangements as well. It would have all been too much.

He actually sounded annoyed. "I didn't go check the cemetery, though. I should have thought of that."

That annoyed-at-himself-for-missing-something tone was one she'd heard a few times before. "You _did_ question the grave site, and we're the ones who told you to put her next to John. The grave is on us, Thomas, not you. Nobody could have expected you to go do a personal inspection."

He dodged away, obviously not convinced and not wanting to debate it with her. "Is Greg asleep?"

"Yes." She ran a hand lovingly along her husband's face. The stress lines and the pain lines were both smoothed out somewhat now. "We might be a little later down to breakfast tomorrow morning."

"That's fine with me. I'm glad he took something stronger. I could tell how much pain he was in by the end of the movie."

"He'd missed some of his regular meds today because he has to take them with food, and he wasn't eating enough. That plus the tension with the funeral all built up." She studied House, thinking. "Nothing is actually scheduled for tomorrow. He's got those doctor appointments Wednesday to talk about Blythe. Maybe tomorrow, after breakfast, we could all do something together. That's up to him, of course. But he's incapable of doing nothing for a day, and you're right here available. He's interested in you."

"I'd like that. Don't worry, though; I won't mention the possibility to him. Let him come to it." He hesitated, then said, "I'm sure Greg has a top quality piano at home."

"Yes, of course he does. It's a baby grand, and it's his pride and joy. A year ago when we had guests at Thanksgiving from my parents' family, he went ballistic when one of them just sat down and started picking out a tune very badly. He thought touching it was grounds for justifiable homicide." Thomas chuckled, picturing it. "Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering the other day about the piano. The old one he started on, I mean. It's still in Blythe's house; at least it was last time I visited."

She smiled. "You want it."

"Yes. I just wanted to bounce the idea off you first. Obviously, I'll have to pick the right time to ask him, but do you think there's any chance at all? I don't want to join the line for victims of justifiable homicide."

She laughed. "I think it's a neat idea. Yes, I believe you'd have a chance. Of course, he'll probably mock you for wanting it since you aren't musical. But in the end, I think he'd agree. We sure don't need another one, and the one he has now is better. We're going to have to do something eventually with that house, getting it cleared out to sell, but I'm glad there's no rush on that. It all has to go through probate first. We need to find Blythe's lawyer and figure out where things stand; I'll probably do that myself by phone next week. Greg gave me her address book, but it's. . . unique. Finding the lawyer out of that will be like a scavenger hunt."

"When the time comes, I'd be glad to help with clearing the house out and with arrangements for selling it," Thomas offered.

"Don't let yourself get into overvolunteering on things," she advised. "If he reads that in you, he'll take advantage of it."

"I don't plan to be a total pushover; he wouldn't respect that anyway. But I know the house will be tough. It's probably John's house to him, even if he never lived there himself and nothing ever happened there."

"I know he thinks of it that way. He's only entered it once, back when Blythe was in the hospital a few years ago after an accident. You've been there several times, right?"

"Yes, visiting John and Blythe. Not too often, but I kept dropping by briefly every few years even after they retired there. Would have been too suspicious to drop out of their lives totally after Greg left, and besides, it was a small link to him."

"I was too focused on him that one visit to notice much, and it was short. Do you remember anything else in there that we might actually want? All I remember is pictures. I'd like some of those."

"Lots of pictures. Keep in mind, my mental image is about three years old. I went over there a few days ago just to met the neighbors, but I never went in. The outside had definitely changed since John's death, and she might have added things inside, too. But the furniture was basic. Comfortable but not heirlooms. I don't remember anything that screamed family treasure to me. If I wind up sorting through it for you eventually, I'd be careful, but of course, it would be better if he did a walk-through himself. I hate to suggest that immediately after his mother's funeral, though."

"No," she said quickly. "No on you suggesting it, I mean. I might ask Jensen's opinion if I get a chance tomorrow, but the timing seems a little pushed to me, too. The house isn't urgent." She looked at her watch, thinking of Patterson waiting. "I'd better let you go. It's been a long day, and I'm sure you're as tired as I am."

"It has been a long day," he agreed, but the annoyance was back underlying his voice.

"That stone wasn't your fault, Thomas," she repeated. "Besides, you made up for it later. That first-draft drawing of a new tombstone is priceless. Even if that one won't wind up at the grave, I'm sure Greg will keep it and get a lot of satisfaction out of it. I hadn't thought of changing the stone." She had been too focused on her husband, even though the stone had angered her. "You surprised me tonight. You've got a sneaky streak in you."

"I'll have to plead guilty to that. It's useful sometimes." She laughed. "Good night, Lisa. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Thomas." She hung up and spent another few minutes dissecting that conversation, comparing and contrasting. She was sure she was safe on her bet if House decided to take her up on it. She got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and picked up the clothes on the floor while she was there. Coming back, she gave her husband another kiss and then called Patterson.


	36. Chapter 36

"So he's doing better," Cuddy concluded with relief.

Patterson had listened quietly through the torrent of description of the day, from the breakfast to the funeral to the burial, finishing with the postscript that evening. Cuddy was still wound up herself even through the relief, and Patterson just let her talk. Finally, as silence lengthened for the first time in the so far one-sided call, the psychiatrist spoke. "I'm glad to hear it. I'm especially glad he finally let himself cry. But how are _you_ feeling now?"

Cuddy took a deep breath and paused for the first time for a mental inventory. "Better. I don't think I'd realized how tense I was before."

"Did you say goodbye to her yourself?" It had been Cuddy's sole personal assignment from Patterson for the funeral.

"Yes. It. . . it did help. I was still so worried about Greg right then, I almost skipped out of it."

"He had several other people with him. Not that I'm downplaying your importance to him as a support, but you have to remember to let yourself have needs, too, and that yours are no less valid than anybody else's. Trying to be somebody's sole rock 24/7 isn't healthy. I'm proud of you for making the right decision there."

Cuddy smiled, looking over at her husband, remembering how he wanted that phrase repeated as he fell asleep. Part of that had been some mental differential, but she knew how much he valued the words for themselves. She, too, hadn't heard enough of them in life, even if her score was ahead of his. She relaxed a little more. "Rachel joined me up at the casket. I'd left the girls back in the seats, but Rachel ran up after a minute. She'd been crying some earlier in the service, but she never got too upset, and she looked right at her then."

"That surprises you, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does. I guess I was expecting her to be freaked out, especially at the casket, like a scene in a horror movie."

"And where would Rachel, at three, have seen a horror movie?"

"Good point. I think she had been remembering the other morning when Greg found her, but seeing her laid out like that, all peaceful with the flowers, seemed to help. Rachel said then and a few times later that she looked better."

"Rachel is going to be fine, Dr. Cuddy. The girls will cue off you for handling death and loss, and after a mistake at the beginning in explaining it, you've been doing a good job with them through this. How did Abby react?"

Cuddy reached over to touch her husband again. "She was crying a little, too, but she was so focused on Greg. He was holding her, and she was watching him more than anything, even during the music. Of course, that was when he was all locked up still, trying not to feel anything. Actually, I think he'd drugged himself this morning. He wasn't quite reacting right, even for him in stubborn mode, and he was being especially careful how he walked, too. His balance wasn't off, but he was acting like he thought there was a chance it might be and wanted to be sure because he had Abby. But I think she knew something was odd, even if she didn't understand what." One of the humor points of the day broke through the memories. "He even handed Abby to Thomas at one point. He was getting in the van and just handed her off to him, didn't even notice who it was. Believe me, he _never_ would have done that with no conscious decision to unless he'd taken something."

"That's interesting," Patterson commented. "You're probably right that he'd taken a few extra doses of something. Even so, it shows a softening up toward his father. I'm sure that even drugged, he would have noticed if he'd started handing his daughter to, say, a terrorist standing there with bomb in hand. He's slowly seeing him as less of a threat."

"I hope so. I just wish progress would be faster sometimes. Thomas is such a good man, and he's so lonely." She smiled, remembering the drawing of the stone. "He's a bit of a rascal at times, too. You have to be around him a while to pick up on that."

"Like his son."

"Definitely. Greg is more in the face of the world, though. Thomas can almost come across as nondescript at first. I can see exactly how good he was in intelligence work; he's a chameleon. Fades right into a background if he wants. He's got a sharp sense of humor, but he isn't defensive defiant like Greg is. It makes me wonder again what Greg would have been like if he'd been raised differently. Marina put things together today for herself, and she made a comment that she didn't think the girls would be too far behind."

"She's probably right. Children are far more perceptive than we give them credit for."

"Rachel is totally sold on him, but I don't think she's wondered yet who he really is. She's more willing to take people at face value. So far, I think to her, he's a nice guy willing to play with her who has a horse. But Abby was interesting. When Greg handed Abby to Thomas, I was worried she'd act up there, and I was busy trying to help him get in. She _hates_ being held by strangers, and she'll hit the limit on it pretty quickly. But she didn't struggle to get away. She was just _studying_ him. I think she senses that he's _somebody_, even if she doesn't know who. She scares me sometimes the way you can see those wheels turning in there, and she's only two."

"You just said something interesting there, Dr. Cuddy," Patterson said.

"What? About Abby?"

"Only indirectly. That _is_ interesting about Abby, but notice what you said along the way. Your husband handed Abby off to his father, and you got worried that she would resist because you were busy helping him get into the van."

"Right. I had my hands full just then."

"But how many other adults were there immediately with you?" Cuddy flinched, caught red handed once again. She sighed. "How many?" Patterson insisted.

"Three," she admitted.

"Every one of whom is familiar to Abby, aren't they?"

"Yes. You're right; if she'd objected, somebody else could have taken her right away."

"Precisely. We've talked before about how you aren't responsible for handling everything solo."

Ridiculously, she felt like she needed to defend herself, even to Patterson. "I don't try to handle _everything._ I let Thomas take the funeral arrangements just this last week, and that was major."

"That was definite progress. Of course, it also helps him get closer to Dr. House, which you want, but I was very impressed how you handled that and trusted him for it. Well done."

Cuddy settled back against the headboard again. "So you're saying sometimes it's two steps forward, one step back?"

"Sometimes. But that's still forward added together. You've come a long way in just six months, Dr. Cuddy. But you want progress to be like an interstate, smooth traveling at highway speed, maximizing gas mileage. It's much more often like city driving in an unfamiliar city. Stop at a light, go, stop again, check your directions, take a wrong turn here and have to work your way back around to your road. But even then, none of us have been stuck driving in that strange city for years. If we keep trying, we _do_ get there. You're doing well. Just work on noticing when old habits try to kick in, okay?"

"I will. I was actually thinking a little while ago that I _couldn't_ have done everything this last week. If Thomas hadn't stepped in, that plus dealing with Greg and the girls would have been too much."

"Well done. Nobody can do everything, Dr. Cuddy. Giving 100% is all that's required. But just like with Abby earlier, there are other people around you who will step up when needed if you'll let them. I'll let you go for tonight. You need some sleep as much as he does."

She looked at her husband. "I really wish we could be on that interstate sometimes." She wished it even more for him than herself.

"So do I," Patterson admitted. "I'm as much in favor of fuel and time efficiency as anybody else." Cuddy laughed. "Good night, Dr. Cuddy."

"Good night. And thanks."

"You're welcome. Call me if you need me."

Patterson hung up, and Cuddy put her cell phone on the nightstand. After a moment, she picked it back up and sent off a text to Wilson. _I'll let you know when we head for breakfast tomorrow. Good night._ She sent the same thing a moment later to Thomas. It was ridiculous to make him stake out the dining room to be able to eat with his family. Replacing the cell phone beside the bed, she switched the lamp off and then snuggled down next to her husband. House was deeply asleep, and she focused on the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breathing, putting hers in unison with it and using a technique Patterson had taught her. Inhale pink clouds, exhale black clouds. Picture the stress leaving. "I'm proud of you," she said again. Safe against him, the worst day of the trip past, she found that sleep claimed her quickly.


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: Those who have commented that they miss Jensen at the moment, I do, too. But there are several high-power Jensen/House episodes a little later. Patience. By the end of the story, I don't think he'll feel short changed.

Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Once they got back to their hotel room, Jensen and Wilson both made calls home, and then Jensen retreated to the bathroom to call his own therapist for the post-funeral session. Wilson did offer to take a book down to the lobby or something, but Jensen refused, saying he didn't mind the porcelain office. Once the door was shut, the psychiatrist wasted a few minutes of the privacy he'd gained just postponing the inevitable. Finally, giving himself a firm pep talk, he dialed.

"Hello, Michael." Paul sounded bright and fresh, even though it was getting late by now.

"How was the fishing today?"

"Marvelous. This is the life, fishing in January, taking my boat out on the calm waters, going down to the beach in all seasons. Every retiree's dream." His voice was just a little flat, and Jensen grinned.

"You miss the grind, don't you?"

Paul sighed. "Old habits are hard to break, I must admit. I'm sorry for the circumstances, but I am glad you called last week. Do you have any idea how tiring it can be at times to do _nothing_?"

"That's a lesson I'm not in much danger of learning so far."

"No, you're definitely not. But your time will come in twenty or thirty years, and you'll really sympathize then." He paused, audibly changing gears, and Jensen vividly could picture his friend: Tall, though not as tall as Thornton or House, with an easy smile right up until he pinned an evasive patient ruthlessly to the chair. "I don't mean to complain. It is fun, and I was getting tired, but this _is_ a big change all at once. So, how did things go today?"

"Could have been worse. You know," Jensen said, "there's no reason it _has_ to be all at once. Why don't you go volunteer at a counseling center or something? You'd keep at least the toes of one foot in the water professionally, and the fish would still bite if they were only scheduled part time."

There was silence for a moment. "That's not a bad idea, Michael. Don't know why that one didn't occur to me."

"Maybe it's too much like admitting defeat. You've only been retired a few months, and it _is_ what you wanted. What you said you wanted, anyway."

"You're probably right. Now then, answer the question before I unretire and fly up there in person to nail you down properly. Do you really think I'll let you get away with that summary?"

"No. Just postponing things. I knew it wouldn't work." Jensen relaxed a little into the familiarity. He could trust Paul, both as friend and therapist, even when and perhaps especially when the other man pushed him. The certainty of that was reassuring. "It was an interesting day." He proceeded into a much more thorough description of the funeral clear on into Thornton's visit that evening. Paul listened quietly.

"Do you want to tell me what you said to her?" he asked at the end. He had encouraged Jensen to say something privately to Blythe, some final words, but hadn't suggested anything specifically.

"I told her I was sorry."

"Just in general or narrowing it down?"

"For whatever I had done toward this, if anything. And yes, I put it exactly like that to her. And then I asked her why the hell she hadn't talked to us."

He could hear the approval clear through the phone. "Excellent. Really, Michael, if you _are_ going to start assigning blame, which is almost always pointless if not impossible, you can't assign it only to yourself in this situation. You had a lot of company in that, and she takes the largest share of all. She alone was deliberately misleading you and her son in those sessions. She knew her doctor's warning and advice, which he apparently laid out clearly."

"According to the office manager, it was very clear. We'll see him on Wednesday and get more details in person, but she definitely knew something was wrong and that he thought it could even be life threatening."

Paul's voice sharpened up a little, and Jensen could picture the eyes zeroing in, preventing escape. He had seen it several times in person. "You hesitated there, Michael. Right before saying '_we'll _see him.'"

Jensen sighed. "You really do need to go volunteer somewhere. You're too good to fall out of the field entirely. Besides, you have to save some fish for somebody else. House hasn't said that he isn't taking me along still. He probably is. I just . . ." He paused to crystallize the thought, not that it needed crystallizing. But stating it outright was frightening, which was ridiculous. He knew and had advised others hundreds of times that stating worries outright, at least in a confidential conversation like this, was always a definite improvement over brooding on them in silence. "I'm afraid I might have lost my nerve with the work," he admitted. "Particularly with House. I'm afraid it's never going to be the same again."

"Tonight strengthened that fear somehow, didn't it? You spent easily as much time describing his father's visit as you did the funeral."

"It did. Thornton took a risk tonight, a _big_ risk. And he gained some ground for it. But I was only worrying the whole time about him pushing House too hard, and even when I did decide it was time to stop, I said it wrong. That was a mandate, not just an opinion. All of them thought the tone was too much. If I'm afraid to take risks anymore with him, this is never going to work. We wouldn't be able to go on in sessions. House is such a tightrope to walk at the best of times, balancing between pushing him and giving him space, and he's so good at sensing any shakiness in that. He picks up on anybody's weak points like your high-tech fish finder on your boat shows you fish. He might be a friend, too, but as a patient, he'd take advantage if I was tentative with him. He couldn't help it. But he's not ready to quit therapy yet, and I'm not sure I could get him to switch to anybody else, especially right now. We were dealing with some very tough issues involving his father and also John even before his mother's death came in, and that's rocked things even further. It would be hard for anybody else to pick it up cold right now and earn his trust." He stopped. Stating it didn't make the problem look any smaller, but he was looking forward to Paul's advice.

The older man took a minute, thinking it over, studying things from all sides. "Do you think it was wrong to stop tonight when you did?"

"No. He was hitting the limit. He'd had a hell of a day anyway."

"But you hadn't spoken up until then and were just tense?"

"Right, especially the tense part. I know it's not the same as his mother, but it . . . I wasn't sure tonight was the right time to push him like that."

"Has it occurred to you, Michael, that Thornton wondered the same thing?"

Jensen considered it. "No, actually, it hadn't. I was busy admiring his guts more than his technique. But you're right, he didn't just plunge in. He did take a moment to weigh him up first, and even then, he kept it on John. Only on John, never on House breaking down at the grave, and he was even almost making it a game. It was when things went serious that House hit the limit. Thornton actually got him to _laugh_ about John tonight. Given the history among those three, that's _really_ a tightrope."

"Thornton also deliberately set that conversation up to occur in front of you. I think _he_ was trusting _your_ reading of the situation more than you realize. You used the word nervous, which is perfectly understandable given this last week. That's only human of you. But you didn't let the nervousness control you. You _didn't_ speak up at the beginning. You had the chance to take control of that gathering well before you did, and you didn't use that chance."

"I didn't know what he was about to do, though."

"You said he took a long moment, weighing his son up. You knew he was about to do _something_ significant and even touchy then, didn't you? Even without specifics, he gave you a chance there to change the subject."

Jensen hadn't thought of it that way. He replayed that moment, realizing for the first time just how long it had been. Thornton hadn't been looking at him, had only had eyes for his son, but he had been intensely and visibly _aware_ of the whole room. And Jensen knew already how much Thornton could fade into a background. He would only be that obvious in hesitation if he wanted the others to see it. Yes, there had been an opportunity, an invitation, even, to change the subject. Jensen realized now that if he had simply stepped in with the suggestion of a movie then, Thornton would have respected his judgment. "I think you're right on that," he admitted.

"He trusted you, Michael. The others, too, but I think right then, he was especially attentive to you. You could have stopped tonight up front, but you didn't. And when you needed to stop it, you did. There weren't any errors in your actions. Maybe you were feeling nervous, the tone a little too sharp later, like you said, but cut yourself some slack. You _can't_ know yet what a session with him is going to be like, because you haven't even _had_ one with him since his mother's death. Nor should you have; you've both had plenty of things you needed to deal with first. But don't predict the entire future based on these few days."

Jensen smiled. The reassurance helped, even if he still couldn't help wondering. "So you think I need to forget about sessions for the moment?"

"Yes. For you as psychiatrist, anyway. Thornton is on a much tighter time table in opportunity for contact than you are, and even he was very careful. You'll know when to start again. So will House. There are two sides to a session, after all; he's probably as nervous and worried as you are. Once you get back east, I think you need to get back to work - in general with everyone, I mean. That will steady you a lot. I don't think for a minute you've lost your touch. But with House, let the timing happen, and I doubt it will be too long. When you _both_ know it's time, _then_ it truly will be time to start again." Paul paused for emphasis. "Michael, becoming true friends with a patient is a tightrope itself. Of course, it shouldn't happen often. Unless it's rare, you're getting too involved in your job."

"Like I did before."

"No. That was never your problem. You weren't trying to make your patients into friends, you saw them as a crusade. You were out to vanquish all mental illness, save the world, and never, ever, ever again have any therapeutic failure. Forget worrying about repeating the past; this situation is _nothing_ like your past. But where I was going with that is that when you _do_ form a friendship with a patient, it makes things even harder professionally. That's one reason this has hit you so. You feel like you let down your friend as well as your patient. But when you wonder if the trust is lost, just remember that he asked you along on this trip. He still trusts you. Give yourself and him time - as friends and as therapist and patient. You have time. Thornton doesn't, not face-to-face time. He's dealing with these precious couple of days, hoping for more ultimately, but all he's certain of is the opportunity right now. He works to a different set of limits than you do, so don't try to tell yourself you should have acted like he did tonight, or that you're a coward for not doing so." Jensen heard Paul smile as he backed away from the point he'd made. "I must say, though, from your description, the man does have some serious testicular fortitude."

"That he does. Okay, the whole future isn't based on how I feel today; I'll try to make myself a mental note. And you need to make yourself one to go enlist your services somewhere, Paul."

"I'll make a bargain with you. I'll accept that assignment if you take one from me now."

Jensen sat up straighter, curious. "What's that?"

"Go to bed."

He was caught off guard by the simplicity of it. "That's it?"

"Yes. Go to bed. _That_ is what you need to be doing with the rest of today."

"All right, it's a deal. But next time I call, I want the name of the organization _you_ talked to."

"What kind of time limit is there on that?"

Jensen laughed. "Go to bed yourself, Paul. Thanks again."

"Thank _you_, Michael. You're a good friend - and a good psychiatrist."

Back in the main room, Wilson was already in bed, though working on his laptop, checking professional emails. He looked up as Jensen reentered. "Did that help?" he asked.

"Yes, it did. Paul is good." Too good to be analyzing fish full time in south Florida.

"You know, it's odd to think of you with a therapist."

Jensen turned down his own bed and climbed in. "Why? We've all got our points we need to work on, and outside perspective and input help."

"I know." Wilson changed the subject. "So Thornton can draw, too. He's really good."

"Yes, he is. Those drawings of the family are wonderful, and the one of the first tombstone is priceless."

"Yeah, House is going to get a lot of mileage out of that. He'll probably carry it around with him and pull it out when nobody is looking. I just wish I could follow it when they start changing languages. Did you catch any of that when Thornton was leaving?"

"Actually, I did. I don't speak that language, but I got two words toward the end."

Wilson looked over at the other bed quickly. "Really?" Jensen nodded. "What did he say to House?"

"Good night."

"You can't just go on to sleep and leave that hanging all . . ." Wilson trailed off. "You mean that's what he said?"

"Yes. He told him good night."

As a secret communication, that one was disappointing. Wilson sighed. Jensen turned off his own bedside lamp. "Good night, James."

Wilson closed his laptop. "By the way, Cuddy texted me a little while ago. Said she'd let us know when they were heading for breakfast, which means they'll probably be later than today, which means House went for the big guns tonight."

"He needed to. He'd missed several of the pain meds today."

"Yeah. I think he was drugged on something at the funeral, though." Silence. "Most likely the Ativan." Wilson waited a few more seconds. "Since you prescribe that for him, you need to know about it if he's misusing it. You really ought to talk to him about that." Jensen was an unresponsive lump of covers on the other side of the room. "Okay, you don't have to spell it out for me." Wilson set the laptop well to the side and turned out his own lamp. "Good night."

"Good night, James," Jensen repeated, perfectly pleasantly. Each occupied with their own thoughts, they lay there in the darkness. Sleep was slow in coming.


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: Sorry for the delay. It's been a hectic week, musically and otherwise, followed by a hectic weekend so far. Here's a quick update; more coming maybe Monday, which I have off, but I'm beat tonight and heading for bed early. Tomorrow includes not only the usual Sunday rounds but two hours of dress rehearsal in the evening, and I need a good, long sleep tonight. Thanks for all the reviews, and more is coming soon as I can. Next scene up is breakfast, and after that, once you finish reading this chapter, you can probably guess.

(H/C)

Tuesday morning started quietly enough, though Cuddy couldn't have imagined when she awoke how the day would end up. House slept later than he had Monday, and the girls, pacified with some Cheerios by Marina, tried to play quietly under her prompting until he and Cuddy were ready for breakfast. Rachel was unable to leave the stuffed horse completely alone, but she settled for only the hoofbeats, not the whinnies. She and Abby built a zoo on the carpet with all of their stuffed animals they had along on the trip. Every time the two got too loud in their imagined animal adventures, Marina would remind them that Daddy was still asleep, and they tried diligently to keep it down, especially after Rachel had asked if he had taken "big med'cine for his leg." Those mornings didn't happen regularly, but they were often enough that the girls knew by now he would take longer to wake up and get moving. Cuddy had checked on things in the main room a few times, grateful all over again to Marina for making this trip, and then left her to it, going back to watch her husband.

When House finally did exit the bedroom, the noise erupted like a volcano as the two girls were reprieved from that painfully difficult command of "Shhhh!"

"Daddy!" Rachel galloped up to him, carefully hugging his good leg. "Morning!"

"Good morning, Rachel. Good morning, Abby." Abby was never quite as fast as her sister, but she claimed her fair share of good leg when she got there. He bent to pick them up one at a time for a more bilateral hug.

"We were quiet!" Rachel announced proudly.

"Wonders never cease," House replied. He noted the menagerie on the floor. "Was the horse quiet, too?"

"Uh huh. Marina said, 'Shhhh!'" Rachel gave the command the full dramatized sound effect, then, reminded of her horse, ran back over to get it.

Abby pulled on her father's pants leg. "Up 'gain!" she demanded. He picked her up promptly, then turned to face Cuddy's tightened lips.

"What?"

"She didn't say please, Greg. You ought to make her say please when she wants you to do something. Say please, Abby."

Abby gave her mother a look that spoke clearer than words. Since she was already up, she saw no point in revising her request; the first time had worked. Instead, she studied her father closely, face to face. "You better?" she asked.

He sighed. Of course, the girls knew about his leg by now, and judging from Rachel's description of play, they knew that he was sleeping in this morning and could no doubt guess why. _They don't think less of you,_ he tried to remind himself, channeling Jensen. "Yes, I'm feeling better this morning." He really was. The morphine had reset his pain levels, and a hot shower when he did get up had finished unkinking things from the night's stillness. The offending limb was about as satisfied right now as it ever got.

"Good," Abby said and spontaneously hugged him again.

Rachel ran back up just then with the horse whinnying to make up for lost time. "Morning!" she announced. "Ember says morning."

House groaned. "You named it Ember?"

"Uh huh. Like the _real_ horse."

"But it's not red," House objected, grasping for some straw.

"I don't care. Ember," she insisted.

"Come on," Cuddy said. "We need to head down to breakfast. I just sent Wilson a text a minute ago that we're on our way." Also one to Thomas.

"Let's _eat!_" Rachel agreed.

"Yes." Abby seconded the motion.

"You can't take the horse with us to breakfast," Cuddy stated. "Put it back with the other animals, Rachel."

"But it's_ hungry,_" Rachel tried.

Cuddy shook her head firmly, cringing at the thought of the stuffed horse at a table along with syrup. "You can play with it more later. Put it down now."

"Now," Abby repeated.

"Shut up," Rachel fired back instantly.

House sighed and set Abby down. "Rachel, say you're sorry." Abby and Rachel both hesitated and appealed to him in look.

"Say it," Cuddy insisted. "We don't go to breakfast until you do."

Rachel straightened her shoulders, facing the necessity. She took a few steps to her sister. "Sorry, Abby." She gave her a hug, which Abby returned.

Cuddy smiled. "That's my good girl."

"I'm getting to like that phrase more the more we do with it," House noted. He looked at his wife, eyes sparkling. "Have I done anything I need to apologize for yet today?"

She ran a quick mental checklist. "You didn't make Abby say please."

"You're right. I'm sorry, Lisa."

Both girls interrupted their kiss. "Eat now?" Abby asked.

Rachel was more blunt. "No kissing! Let's eat!"

Laughing, they split apart, and, with the horse restabled on the floor, the group left the suite to head for breakfast. The elevator stopped one floor down, and Wilson and Jensen were waiting as the door opened.

"Perfect timing," Cuddy said as they entered. Fortunately, the elevator had been empty to start with; their group alone would fill one fairly quickly.

Wilson smiled as if he'd just been given a good job performance review. "I told him it would still take you a few minutes to actually leave the suite after your text. Especially with the girls."

"Rachel wanted to bring the stuffed horse," House informed him. Wilson cringed as if imagining syrup disasters himself. House turned to Jensen, who had been quiet so far. "Don't forget, we've got those appointments tomorrow."

Jensen looked startled briefly, then relaxed into a smile. "I hadn't forgotten."

"Got to have you along to interpret Shrinkese with her psych, after all."

"You mean there's a language you _don't_ speak?" Wilson asked, offering a way out of the moment. House was already looking for one, but Wilson was glad he'd tossed Jensen a little reassurance. The oncologist had never seen Jensen quite like he was on this trip.

Two floors down, the elevator stopped again, and that time, as the door opened, it was Thornton. "Good morning, Thomas," Cuddy said. Rachel, Jensen, and Wilson echoed the greeting as he started to enter.

"Again, perfect timing," House started, shooting Cuddy a suspicious look, but he broke off before asking, and his voice was suddenly even sharper. "What's wrong with your foot?"

Cuddy looked at Thomas quickly as he finished walking into the elevator. She hadn't noticed anything at all off about his strides or the way he was standing now that he'd stopped. He _did_ look tired, she thought, as if he weren't yet recharged completely from the emotionally wearing day yesterday. This last week was telling on him. She still couldn't spot what her husband had seen, though it never occurred to her to question it.

"I tripped and stubbed my toe on something," Thomas answered. "Just bruised it. It's okay." Cuddy was left trying to deduce which foot she needed to be worrying about here; she would make sure to ask her husband later. Thornton really must be getting tired from the cumulative effect of it all. Normally, he moved with the fluid grace that House once had; for him to trip was unusual, at least based on her observations so far.

"We all need a break today," Cuddy decided. "Just relaxing, doing something undemanding."

"Here we go," House said. "You have an agenda already made out with 14 points, of course."

"Actually, I don't. We can talk about it over breakfast." She was relieved that he hadn't immediately excluded Thomas from the suggested mutual relaxing day. "There's nothing we _have_ to do today, after all. No appointments, nothing specific."

The elevator opened again at the lobby, and they exited, Cuddy watching Thornton now and still trying to decide what foot was bruised. She was startled to hear her name called as they crossed the lobby toward the hall leading to the dining room.

"Lisa!" She looked around. It was Patsy, Blythe's next-door neighbor, hurrying across the lobby from the main doors. "Lisa! May I talk to you for a minute alone?"

The whole group had come to a halt. "We were just about . . . sure. Back in a minute." Patsy looked worried as well as excited, but from her not-so-subtle looks at House, she would spill the beans faster solo. "I'll tell you everything soon as she leaves," Cuddy promised her husband softly. She followed the neighbor. House was watching Patsy himself with his differential look on, and she knew he'd forgotten breakfast.

Patsy stopped out of earshot from the group, and she spoke softly. "I'm so glad you hadn't checked out yet. I was afraid I'd miss you, and I've got Greg's cell number from Blythe but not yours, and I really wanted to suggest this to you first."

"We're not leaving until Thursday. We have a few appointments tomorrow. Is something wrong?"

"It's about the house."

Cuddy stiffened up, imagining yet another calamity joining the line from the last week. Fire. Broken pipes. She had really meant to hunt down Patsy before she left anyway, intending to offer to pay her to keep an eye on the place until they knew where they stood legally and could sell it. "Is something wrong with it?"

"No, no, not at all. I just wanted to ask, and I know this is _awful_ timing, and that's why I wanted to ask you first, but there is a reason I'm asking right now. Thomas said yesterday before the funeral once when I said Greg hadn't been by and worried he wasn't in town yet that he thought Greg probably didn't want to stay at that house. Which I can understand, really, once I think about it. It's probably John's house in his eyes." Patsy was almost simmering, her words running together, but she stopped here for a response.

"Yes," Cuddy confirmed. "What's going on?"

Patsy took a deep breath. She reminded Cuddy of a hummingbird just now. "Do you think he'll want to sell it?"

Cuddy was getting puzzled. She looked back over to her husband and knew that Jensen, Wilson, and Thornton all together, trying to keep him involved in conversation, wouldn't be able to hold him away verbally much longer. "I'm sure he'll want to sell it. We don't need another house, and he wouldn't want that one anyway."

Patsy relaxed, the worry draining away. "Oh, this is perfect. Absolutely perfect. I know this isn't the best time to bring it up right after the funeral, but my brother called me last night. My baby brother; I've always called him that. He's 16 years younger. Mom and Dad said he was an accident, but such a _good_ accident. I'm the oldest, and he was the baby."

Cuddy was starting to understand why Blythe and Patsy had been good friends. Her only previous two experiences of the other woman were at the hospital after Blythe's accident and at the funeral yesterday, neither of which occasions encouraged ebullience. "What did he tell you last night, Patsy?"

"He lost his job! His employer is downsizing because of the economy." She stated it like marvelous news, and Cuddy looked confused. "The thing is, he was _so _discouraged last night, wondering what to do now, and he still has some years until he can go on Social Security, but his wife had already lost her job last year. Jobs are especially down in their area, and he wanted my advice if he should just pull up roots and look somewhere else. The lease on their place now runs out on the 15th; he wasn't sure about signing for another year with things up in the air. And I thought of Blythe's house. It would be so _perfect_, having them next door, and we do have more jobs around Lexington than he does there, and his wife loves flowers, too. They'd _love_ the place. And I could help out with payments if I had to, but they have some savings, too, and I'm sure they'd find jobs. It's been so _lonely_ since my Harry passed on, but the thought of having them right next door is too good to be true. My baby brother, living right next to me."

Cuddy was staring. "You want to buy Blythe's house? I mean, your brother does?"

"Yes. Oh, he was _so_ cheered up when I mentioned it last night. We've always been close, because I was like his second mother, and he was always my baby. Of course, I did say that I didn't know for sure if it was available, and I'm sorry to be rushing you asking like this, but like I said, his lease is up on the 15th of this month, so he needs to decide quickly if he's going to move."

Cuddy felt a little lightheaded. She had been dreading managing the house long distance, even with a real estate agent, worrying about finding the best one and keeping an eye on things from Princeton. And now, in a down housing market, they had a buyer for the house before it was even listed. "He wants the house," she repeated.

"Yes." Patsy was still excited but finally winding down verbally. "Do you think Greg would agree?"

"Agree to _what_?" House asked, limping up at that moment, trailed by the others. Cuddy was impressed that he had left the conversation private as long as he had.

"Patsy's brother wants to relocate to Lexington and buy Blythe's house," Cuddy told him.

He looked from her to Patsy, then shrugged. "Great. Give her a receipt, and let's go eat breakfast."

"It's not that easy, Greg." The difficulties began lining up in Cuddy's mind. Far from a release, this might complicate things even further. "Patsy, we aren't even sure _where_ things stand legally. I'm not even sure it is his house, although I can't imagine her leaving it to anyone else. We have to find her lawyer, go through probate. If there isn't a will, it would take even longer, although Greg would still get it. Do you have any idea who Blythe's lawyer is?"

"No, I don't, but there's a retired lawyer who eats at the center. She might have used him, and she probably would have asked his advice picking one even if it was somebody else. I'll give you his number, but he's out of town himself for a few weeks over the holidays. I'm sure she left the house to Greg."

"Even if she did, probate takes months," Cuddy said. "We're willing to sell, but I'm not sure we _can_."

"He could rent it for a few months until things were settled legally," Jensen suggested.

"Oh, that's a great idea," Patsy agreed. "It's the location we want, next to me. If it takes a while to work it out legally, that's fine. Really, it doesn't need to be empty anyway. Houses get lonely without people." She looked at House. "Brian's wife loves flowers, Greg. She'd take care of what Blythe was doing with the landscaping."

"Even if we rent it to you for a while, we still need to find the lawyer," Cuddy insisted. "Besides, it has to be cleaned out, too."

House tightened up there more than he had at any point in the conversation so far. Selling the house obviously didn't bother him at all. Thinking about John's things in it did. "That's _easy_. I'll just hire some company to come shovel everything out into a giant dumpster. I'll bet it could be cleared out in a day, tops. Probably just a few hours. There's _nothing_ there that matters."

Thomas managed to conceal his flinch, though Cuddy, thinking of the pictures, did not. "Don't do that," Jensen said softly. House shot him a challenging look. "Don't throw it all away without knowing exactly what's there. You will want some of it." House looked incredulous, but Jensen's eyes were steady, and he held his ground.

Patsy spoke up again. "I apologize for the rush on this. My brother's lease is up on the 15th, so we are up against a time limit. I'd be glad to have things moved into storage myself until you feel ready to look at them."

"It's not a question of feeling ready," House snapped, then broke off. "How did you know what hotel we were at?" he said, wrenching the subject away.

"Thomas happened to mention yesterday at the funeral when I asked if he'd seen you yet that you were staying at the same hotel he was, and he'd mentioned last week at lunch where he was staying. So nice that you happened to wind up staying close to your friend in all this." Patsy returned carefully to the subject in the front of her mind. "If you don't want to do this yet, Greg, I understand. Maybe my brother can rent somewhere else in town until things settle down."

House shook his head. "We need to do _something_ with that house. If we don't, _she'll _be gnawing on it like a dog with a long-distance bone once we're back home. You can have it. That's fine."

Patsy looked from him to Cuddy, then at her watch. "I have an appointment in Cincinnati I need to be heading for. I'll be gone all day, but you can call me if you need to, today or any time. Here, Lisa, let me give you my cell number." She pulled out a small notepad from her purse and jotted it down, tearing that page off and handing it over. Cuddy heard the jingling of keys as Patsy returned the notepad to the purse compartment.

"You have a key, don't you?" Cuddy asked. Blythe's own keys were back in Princeton along with her purse. Cuddy had been too busy with kids and husband and preparing for the trip to be thinking about the house until after the mountain of the funeral was behind them.

"Yes. Do you want it?" Patsy pulled out her keyring without waiting for an answer, removing one and handing it over. "I apologize again for the timing."

"It's okay. You're doing us a favor, really."

"Well, goodbye for now. I have to get going." Patsy left, and the adults in the group were speechless for a moment, just absorbing it.

Wilson was the first to break the silence. "Wow. I'll have to tell Bonnie about this one. She won't believe it. No real estate agent would."

"We still have to find that lawyer," Cuddy said. She looked at the key and slowly deposited it in her own purse. "I might go over there today just to look for papers. If Blythe had a desk, maybe she has a copy of her will there. It could be filed neatly just waiting for us."

House shook his head. "Did you even look at that address book? She probably had made a will, especially after nearly dying in that accident a few years ago. But she wouldn't have filed it under W in a file cabinet. Besides, it's not just the lawyer you're thinking of."

His tone was challenging, but she met his eyes without backing down. "I want some of those pictures, Greg. If you don't want to see the place, that's fine. But I'm not going to let you hire a dumpster company without me even knowing what else is there."

"The outside has changed now, Greg," Thomas said. "I've seen it many times over the years. It isn't _his_ house anymore, not since his death. The inside might have changed, too."

"I've _been_ there," House said sharply. Once, Cuddy added mentally. For all of 15 minutes a few years ago and in pretty much of a John haze then.

Thornton held his ground, though Cuddy could tell how tense he was. To give him credit, she didn't think it was that piano in the front of his thoughts right now, either. He was truly concerned for his son, not wanting to see him do something irrevocable that he'd regret later. "You need to have . . . a piece of her. You might be surprised how many there are."

"It's good advice," Jensen agreed.

Marina threw in her two cents. "You do _not_ just throw away your mother's things."

House abruptly hit the limit, turning away. "Let's go eat before they stop serving breakfast."

The girls had been silent through most of this, trying and failing to follow the conversation, but Rachel came to life now. "Let's _eat_!" They walked to the hall leading to the dining room, and for the moment, at least, the subject of the house was dropped.


	39. Chapter 39

A/N: Short update. The house is next. And yes, Thornton's foot matters, but that's a few chapters down the line. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Once the family was settled at a large table and the orders taken, House jumped straight into Japanese and fired a question like a shot across the table to Thornton. "So you just happened to tell that neighbor what hotel I was at? What the hell _else _have you just happened to tell her?" He couldn't resist a quick sidelong guilty look at the girls even while swearing in a different language. They were getting so quick to parrot things back; he and Cuddy were both trying to watch their words.

Thomas met his son's eyes without flinching. "Greg, she asked me a direct question, had I seen you yet, and was worried that because you hadn't been by the house, you might not be in town yet and might miss the service. It would have been far more suspicious to dodge answering."

"Try lying," House advised.

"Why? Save the lies for when you have to use them. Also, the truth reassured her. If I'd lied and said I hadn't seen you yet, she would have been much more on edge when you came in and might have passed off some of that onto you even while trying not to. Besides, this is a large hotel. Saying we happened to wind up at the same one isn't even close to publicly announcing the relationship. She might have even thought the choice was intentional _because_ we're friends. Supposedly," he added, but a sad edge crept into his tone on the final word.

House studied him closely, dissecting the expression, analyzing the tone. That sadness at the end had been the strongest emotion in that whole response. As carefully as he looked for it, there was no deceit, no sense of coverup of other questions Thornton was glad he hadn't been asked. His father went on after a moment. "Greg, I haven't told the people here anything that indicated a closer relationship. Everything that came up with John when I shut that topic down for the funeral was just based on reported facts they'd all already read, and they have no idea I set up the service. Patsy isn't suspicious at all. Besides, it's a good thing she could find you this morning."

"She'd better not be suspicious," House grumbled, though he was reassured.

The other adults had been watching this exchange with curious concern, but Abby broke into the conversation here, banging the high chair tray with both hands. "No!" she said sharply. She was much louder than they had been, and a few other diners looked over.

House relaxed a little. He couldn't help it. So familiar, that sense of frustration when something he knew was right there in front of him was proving elusive. "I apologize, Abby," he said. She was placed next to him, and he reached out to run one hand through her chestnut hair affectionately. She leaned into her father's touch, and Cuddy, looking across the table to Thomas, saw a moment of pure hunger that had nothing to do with the late breakfast.

"What?" Abby demanded. She was willing to accept the apology but still wanted to know what she'd missed. Wilson straightened up in his chair, poised.

"I'll tell you later," House said. Like about twenty years later. Or thirty. Jensen grinned, reading the thought. Abby didn't look satisfied. "The food should be here in a minute." He tried for distraction. Rachel looked around to see if she could spot it coming, but Abby was unwavering. Reluctantly, he went for a sideways, not-quite lie. He hated lying to his daughters. "We were talking about Patsy. That lady we just met in the lobby. She wants to buy Grandma's house. You wonder about the words, don't you? That was just another language, Abby. There are lots of them. Like Marina speaks one sometimes. But if you know how to speak others, you need to stay in practice. Like playing the piano. All we were doing is practicing. Someday you'll speak other languages, too."

She smiled, and his tight shoulders released as he realized that for the moment, he had escaped the hot seat. He would have to watch it around them, though. Couldn't forget those little eyes and ears. He looked over at Thornton, plainly if silently telling him to be careful. Thomas looked annoyingly unruffled, even amused, by that whole explanation, reminding House that he himself had been the one who changed languages in front of everybody this morning. Thomas hadn't yet pulled that stunt in front of the children.

Rachel had been curious about the words, too, but she accepted House's answer faster than her sister did. Looking over to Thomas now, she said, "Thomas! My horsey is Ember!"

He smiled at her. "Really? You named your stuffed horse Ember?"

"Uh huh. From Daddy for Christmas."

That time Cuddy felt Thomas' lightning-fast mood shift. "Rachel," she said, "you know we told you girls those presents were from Santa Claus."

Rachel shook her head vigorously. "From Daddy. He looked 'spicious." She was obviously proud of the word and the deduction. House sighed, and Thomas relaxed, realizing that the misplaced credit hadn't been an intentional slam at him. Marina, watching that exchange closely, realized for the first time who actually had given the horse to Rachel.

"Abby's little music computer was from Santa Claus, too," Cuddy said for Marina's benefit.

Abby perked up. "Music?"

"Not right now. _Breakfast,_" her mother answered. The waiter was making his heavily laden way across the room with a cart. Plates were distributed all around, and they started eating, everyone hungry by this point. Even House approached the food with more interest this morning than yesterday, in spite of the scene about the house. Watching his girls drained some of the tension out of him as Cuddy and Marina started cutting up child-sized bites of pancakes and spooning up cereal, both of them efficiently feeding themselves with the other hand at the same time.

Marina, proving her multitasking skills, even went for a third activity. She obviously wanted the full back story on Thornton now that she knew his identity. She questioned him thoroughly during the meal as to parents, raising, locations, family, and career, all of which he answered, his straightforward and friendly attitude impressing her along with his resume. Rachel was listening, too, and she chimed in a time or two.

"You have a sister?" She looked at Abby.

"Yes, I had a sister, Rachel." He didn't expand on the tense, and that wasn't where Rachel was headed anyway.

"A little sister? Like Abby?"

"No, actually, she was a big sister. _I _was little. I had a big sister and a big brother."

She looked at him, wide eyed. "You were little?"

"Yes. A long time ago. You'll get bigger, too, Rachel. But you'll always be the big sister, just like Ellie was my big sister."

Abby abruptly threw in a question of her own, going back several facts previous. She had obviously been thinking of it in silence for a minute. "He played music?"

"That's right, Abby. My father played music. He played the piano."

She looked over at her own father, then back at this stranger who was around so much the last few days. "You play music?"

"No. I didn't get that talent from him, I'm afraid. I wished I could. My big brother could play some. But Dad was incredibly good at it. I loved listening to him play. I tried for a while, but I just couldn't learn to play the piano myself, nothing like he did. It was so different that I decided I just wanted to listen to him instead."

Rachel nodded wisely. She was in that same position at the moment, enjoying her father's music tremendously but finding her own lessons more and more frustrating. "I can run," she announced, shifting to a field she was better at. "Can you run?"

"Yes, I can. I've always liked to run." He definitely had the long legs for it, Cuddy thought, as well as that graceful, distance-eating stride.

"Daddy used to run," Rachel said. "So I run like him." House flinched, and Marina quickly launched another question of her own.

Toward the end of the meal, the horse came up again. "Can I see Ember?" Rachel asked again, reverting to the previous day.

Thomas sighed. "We live a long way away, Rachel. But I'll tell you what." He quickly pushed on, trying to forestall her asking again if he could move. "I'll bet you could find a pony ride somewhere around where you live, like at a fair or a zoo. Ask your parents sometime, and you probably could go see a pony that way."

"I wanna see Ember," she insisted.

"But you could ride a pony at a pony ride."

"Can I ride Ember?"

"No." It took a moment for House to realize that Thomas had answered in unison with him, even if less sharply. He looked at the other man, surprised.

"Rachel," Thomas explained, "Ember is too big for you to ride. She's very tall. It's a _long_ way up there. She fits me, not you." The mare also, though well trained, was too sensitive. She wasn't a beginner's horse. But Thomas thought Rachel could understand the valid point of the size more easily. "That's why you ought to go to a pony ride at the zoo or a fair if you want to have a ride. They have little ponies just your size." There were also stables with lessons, even ones starting with young children on leadline, but Thomas wasn't about to raise that subject yet, even though he was already planning (hoping) to offer ultimately to pay for it.

Rachel looked stubborn. "I don't wanna be little."

"You won't always." He leaned across the table a little and dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "I'll let you in on a secret. Like I said, you _will _grow. You and Abby both will grow. It just takes time, but it will happen. I promise."

She looked a little cheered by this news. House stepped in firmly there, though his tone wasn't as sharp this time. "You're corrupting my daughter." Thornton shot him a look that both admitted to and dismissed the point. Marina and Cuddy smiled near-identical knowing smiles, and House pushed his chair back. "Enough of this. We'd better get out of here before they charge us for lunch, too." He stood up and started to free Abby.

Cuddy returned to the subject of the house as they waited for the elevator. All of the adults had been thinking of it, but the buck was willingly passed from the others to her. "Greg, I want to go over to that house today. I want to see what's there and look for the legal papers, too." She studied him carefully. He was tensing up again, but he was silent. She looked briefly at Jensen, who gave her an encouraging nod, and then pushed on. The timing was rushed on this, but with Patsy's news, they had no choice. It had to be done while they were here, and she knew he would regret it eventually if he threw it all away blindly. "Do you want to come with me?"

"I already _know_ what's there," he insisted.

"Not everything," Jensen said. "There will be surprises. Some of them will be _good_ surprises. And it would be easier with everybody along to help."

"Help?" Abby asked, picking up on the word. She was watching her father with her concerned look growing again. "I help?"

"Oh, yeah, you two would be a _lot_ of help," House muttered. She ignored his tone, still watching him closely. "One hour," House snapped finally, looking at Cuddy. "We get one hour over there, so do your inventory fast. And I'm not joining you on it. Abby and I will just let you do all the work while we play the . . ." He came to a dead stop, startled, as for the first time he remembered that the piano would be in there. His mother's piano. His first piano. _Damn it_. He couldn't throw away a piano. What else _was_ in there?

Cuddy gave him a moment, then broke the silence. "Okay, Greg. One hour, and then we'll leave if you want. Thank you." She hugged him, and Rachel, whose hand she was holding, and Abby joined in, a tight family knot, as the elevator doors dinged open. Jensen looked back at Thomas. He was watching from the sidelines, painfully aware of his position there. The elevator started to close again, and Cuddy abruptly came to herself and dove at it, commanding it to wait as the rest of the group filed in.


	40. Chapter 40

Thornton's rental car was already in the driveway at Blythe's house when the van pulled in, and Thomas was standing in the front yard looking at the flower beds. He quickly came over to the van to open the sliding door and help them disembark (really, Cuddy thought, it was almost as much of a process as leaving a ship, luggage in tow), and Marina passed him two large bags of toys and supplies for the girls. They had packed well for the girls back at the hotel, over House's protests of, "One hour, remember? We aren't camping for a week." Thomas accepted the bags and backed away as Marina started to unbuckle Abby.

House gingerly extracted himself from the front passenger's seat, careful about his leg as he landed. The van was higher than a passenger car. He felt the familiar stab of longing for a world in which a few inches in things here and there wouldn't make such a laborious difference. Arriving safely on terra firma, he turned to Thomas, who was closest and had obviously been watching him. "Of _course_, you'd be here. Don't remember inviting you to join the party."

Cuddy sighed as she rounded the front of the van and hoped Thomas realized the physical source of that additional edge in her husband's tone at the moment. House hadn't told Thomas _not_ to come, either, and he'd had a few floors of opportunity in the elevator after arrangements were made and before Thomas got off first. He wanted him here; he just didn't want to have to say so. "We're glad to have your help, Thomas," she said quickly. "The more of us there are to sort things and also look for that will, the better." She went up to the sliding door and took Abby from Marina, who turned to Rachel's car seat next. Jensen and Wilson were waiting in the rear to exit last, Jensen having silently communicated that decision to give Thornton and House a minute without them in the middle of it.

Thomas took another step back with the bags, leaving plenty of room for Cuddy and the others to get the girls, but he was watching his son. Greg had limped away from the van, his leg stiffer for the first few strides and then easing up a little, and now he stopped in the front yard, lost in study of the flowers. After a moment, tentatively, Thomas came up next to him.

House was staring at the flower beds and the shrubs. Hours and hours of painstaking work here. He had been surprised at the landscaping on his brief visit nearly three years ago after Blythe's accident, but there was so much more now. That visit had been the first spring after John's death, his mother just starting to unfurl a little like a flower to the sunlight as she crept out of the shadow of his rigid influence. Since then, no doubt, this yard had been one of her passions. It was beautiful, even in winter with most of the plants asleep and leafless, tucked in snugly under their mulch blankets. House wondered what it would look like now in spring, in full, blazing glory. She wouldn't see it. He blinked hard a few times.

"I never even knew she liked flowers this much," Thomas said softly at his elbow.

House tightened up for a moment, considering an arch comment that that was just one other thing on a long list that Thomas had missed, but he couldn't make himself say it. He hadn't known, either. Perhaps his mother hadn't even known fully herself until she had the opportunity. "Flowers," he said, almost inaudibly. "Her . . . her stone. Something with flowers."

"Yes," Thomas agreed. "That's perfect."

Cuddy, holding Abby, came up on her husband's other side and joined in the silent inspection. "Would you like a bush, Greg?" she asked finally. "We could take one home to Princeton and plant it there. These are still pretty little." She left the cause trailing. They were little because they had been Blythe's, hers alone. They had never been John's.

Caught for a moment between the pathetic appeal of the thought and the bitter necessity of it, he fled to protest. "Oh, yeah, like we don't have enough junk already to haul around with us. We were already a traveling sideshow in the airport, and you want to add a _plant_? You'd have to hold the damn thing in your lap the whole flight, too. If we checked it, it would be turned over inside a minute once the baggage apes got their paws on it." He shook his head. "Try to remember once we get inside that every souvenir you pick up has to get back home."

"Obviously, we're going to have to ship some boxes. I'd already decided that. But of course we couldn't ship a potted shrub. I'd be willing to hold it."

"Take an azalea. They have shallow roots," Thomas put in. "Very easy to transplant one just a year or two old, and winter is a good season for it while it's dormant."

"So now you're a plant expert, too?" House fired at him.

Thomas held steady. "No, but Emily was."

House looked away. Not since his one shot last fall, the only time he'd ever succeeded in getting the other man mad, had he ever said anything against Thomas' dead wife.

Rachel came up at that moment. She had been later out of the van than her sister, being on the far side, and the other adults had been trying to stay back and give House, Thomas, and Cuddy some privacy for a minute, but Rachel's patience, as always, was short. Tired of being shut out of things, she broke away from Marina and ran up to them. "Let's go in!" she suggested. She understood that they were going to Grandma's house, where Grandma didn't live anymore, but now that they were here, she saw no reason to stand around looking at uninteresting, twiggy, bare plants. There wasn't even snow here to play in, but the grass was an icky brown. Nothing about this yard appealed to her at all.

Cuddy and Thomas laughed, the mood broken, and House shook off the spell of the flower beds and started for the door. "We were just waiting for the keeper of the keys to open the door. Tell your mother to hurry up." Cuddy went up the front step with him, fishing out the house key with her free hand.

Rachel in following wound up right next to Thomas, and she stopped, looking up at him, distracted by a thought. She tugged on his pants leg as he took a step. "Thomas." He paused and looked down inquiringly, and she surveyed his impressive height. Just like her father. "Were you _really_ little?"

He smiled and set down the bags, bending over to get closer to face level. "Yes, I was. A long time ago. In fact, once I was even littler than you are now. Smaller than Abby, too."

"Wow!" She was obviously encouraged by this news.

"Everybody starts little, Rachel. We all grow. You won't get as tall as I am, because girls are smaller, but you'll probably at least be as tall as your mother someday."

House interrupted them from the porch as Cuddy was unlocking the door. "Come _on_." Cuddy, looking back, saw Thomas' hands twitch as if for just a moment, he thought of picking Rachel up. If so, he also thought better of it. He picked up the girls' bags again instead.

"Come on, Rachel." He walked on to the door with her beside him, and Marina, Wilson, and Jensen followed.

Cuddy pushed the door open, and slowly, House first, they entered.

The house was a single-level, fairly compact, in this neat neighborhood of mostly retirees, and it had the standard design of living room with kitchen behind and a hall leading back to bedrooms and bathroom. The living room had the feature Cuddy remembered most from her sole visit, that far wall solidly covered with pictures. The last time they were here, Blythe had obviously been rearranging them, removing all with any visible signs of injuries to Greg and most that included John. They had found those later in the back, largest bedroom. Now there were none left on the wall containing John, though plenty of Blythe and Greg, alone and together, more of him. The wall behind the pictures had also been repainted; no longer could the sun-fading outlines be seen on close inspection that marked the many years that others had hung there in different order. In fact, she thought the color of the whole room was different now, too, a pleasant sky blue. She couldn't remember what it had been before. She just remembered the visible, recent adjustments to that picture wall, because of how strongly her husband had reacted to them. Now, no one would have known what the wall had looked like for all those former years.

She quickly looked back at House, realizing she had lost herself for a minute in comparison. He had started for the picture wall himself but had stopped halfway at the piano. It was on the long wall that divided the living room from the kitchen. He ran a hand over the top as if verifying that it was in fact the same one. Just a small upright, but she knew how many memories were attached to that. It had been easily the most positive thing in his childhood. It had probably saved his sanity.

Just now, the cover was open, the keys exposed, and there was a music book open on the rack and a few others stacked on the edge of the top. He looked at the song that had been left open, apparently the last one Blythe had picked her way through with her slow but determined playing. _My Favorite Things_ from the _Sound of Music_. He flipped back to the cover while holding her place; the book was a collection of several songs from the musical. House played the first line single handed, just the melody, testing the instrument. It was in tune. Blythe had taken care of it.

Abby in Cuddy's arms was almost flip-flopping out of them by now. Cuddy set her down, and she ran over to the instrument, trying to scramble up onto the bench. House sat down himself, picking up his daughter. She reached out for the keyboard eagerly. Rachel came up, too, and House caught Abby's hands just before she hit a note as his other daughter appeared. He and Cuddy were trying hard to avoid rubbing Abby's musical brilliance into Rachel's face, although supplying alternative activities Rachel was good at, like running, was working to help her frustration. "A little later, Abby," he said. Like when Rachel was distracted with something, not while she was standing right here at his elbow.

Abby settled into her stubborn look - a very familiar stubborn look - and struggled against him for a few seconds. "No!" she insisted, claiming her rightful heritage. Here was a piano, and she knew what they were for, no matter whose house they were in.

He went for the best way to distract Abby from playing a piano, which was to play it himself. "Hold still," he admonished and released her little wrists, reaching around her. He rarely used sheet music himself, but at the moment, he simply played the piece in front of him. Abby settled back against him, and Rachel, who wanted to hear him instead of her sister anyway, watched happily from her position standing just beside the bench, looking at those magical fingers as if wondering how they could do this so easily when she knew by now it wasn't easy at all.

Cuddy turned to look at Thomas. He was rapt, watching the scene, his face lost in both longing and in memories. She wondered how many times he must had stood next to the bench and watched his father play just as Rachel was watching now. Physically, House easily could have been Thomas' father had the latter lived into his 50s. The present wasn't shoved aside by the past, though, and Thomas was drinking in every moment of it, actually hearing his son play for the first time.

House finished the song, and Rachel smiled. "Yay!" She pranced a quick loop around the back of the piano bench, switching sides.

Abby had enjoyed the music but also obviously wanted to hear something a little more challenging. She twisted around to face her father, though as always being careful of his leg. "Play Bee, Dada!" she requested.

House abruptly remembered for the first time who was watching. He turned his head, looking for Thornton. "Play Bee!" Abby insisted.

He knew from their emails that that piece was his father's favorite. "Not a good choice. Pick something else, Abby. This piano won't sound like ours at home; it's too little, and on that piece, you could really tell the difference. It won't be as good."

Rachel was getting into the act now. "I wanna hear Bee, too."

Abby widened her eyes, looking straight at him, close range. "Please?" she asked, giving the line all the delivery she could, which was considerable. The other adults fought not to laugh.

House sighed. "Kid, you are going to _kill_ me someday with those eyes."

"Poetic justice," Cuddy muttered.

Slowly, he set Abby down. "I need my arms free for that one." She didn't protest, taking up her position on the floor, she and Rachel flanking the bench like bookends. "And I was serious about this piano. It won't sound as good as you're used to." They both ignored the disclaimer, waiting eagerly. House picked up the book off the rack, started to close it, then stopped. Leaving the book open to Blythe's place, he set it on top of the piano, out of the way, and he took a deep breath. Cuddy, meanwhile, knowing what piece was coming, had pulled out her cell phone. House had commented when they had listened to the CD of his grandfather that Thornton loved this one. She would record it, and she would send the file to Thomas.

House flexed his fingers, then almost leaped at the keyboard, starting off with the long glissando and then into the rapid-fire _Flight of the Bumblebee_. Thomas stared, not having realized what "Bee" was to the girls until now. His favorite piece. So many times, his father had played that by request for him. He stood spellbound, watching, almost forgetting to breathe, as for the first time in over sixty years, he heard and saw his father's full talent on display right in front of him again.

All too soon, the piece was over. Thomas took a deep breath himself, trying to break the spell before Greg noticed, yet not wanting to break the spell at all. Cuddy nudged him and silently pointed to her cell phone, the saved file there on the screen, safely captured, and he gave her a look of unspeakable gratitude.

Sure enough, House, after recollecting his senses himself, quickly turned on the bench to face the assembled adults behind him, and his tone was challenging, defying anybody to call this even silently an emotional moment or any sort of milestone. "Don't you all have a will to find and inventory to take or something? I told you _I _wasn't going to help, but if none of you do anything but stand around all day, we'll never get out of here."

The knot of adults slowly broke up and drifted away. Cuddy made a quick tour of the house herself, looking in each room, finding a small desk in the kitchen that looked promising legally. Returning to the living room, she gave assignments. "All right. Best way to do this efficiently is to divide it up. Just see what's here and make a list of bigger things or important-looking things. If you find any legal papers or anything that looks like it might have emotional value, ask about it." She quickly handed out notepaper she had brought. "Jensen can take the back master bedroom at the end of the hall." That was John's, the old bedroom of their marriage, and she thought the psychiatrist was by far the best choice to excavate that minefield. "Wilson, you can do Blythe's bedroom, halfway down the hall, opposite the bathroom. I've got the kitchen; there's a little desk in the corner I want to go through. Thomas, you start in here, and I do want the pictures that you don't want yourself. Whoever finishes first can move on to the bathroom, the spare room, or the garage. And Marina, of course, will watch the girls." Rachel at least would drift away from the piano after a while and want more active pursuits. "Everybody understand?"

Thomas promptly snapped to attention and saluted her in perfect, crisp military style. Wilson and Jensen laughed, Marina smiled, and even House was surprised into a rare grin. Cuddy sighed and turned away, heading for the kitchen, and Wilson came up close enough to whisper in her ear. "Sure you want two of them?"

"Get to work," she replied, sotto voce, and went into the kitchen straight to that tantalizing desk. It was a small, personal-sized rolltop with a feminine style and ivory knobs, not at all ponderous looking as some are. The first thing she spotted on opening it, sitting right in the middle for prompt attention, was a power bill, due Friday. With another sigh, she filed that in her purse and dug in, keeping her ears open at the same time for the status of things from the next room, where House had resumed playing, taking lighter requests from the girls now, Disney songs, and where no doubt Thomas, as he took inventory, was soaking up every note.


	41. Chapter 41

A/N: Update from the land of ice and snow. I have a busy weekend ahead with concert and a few other things as we hopefully thaw, so this might be it till next week. Thanks so much for reading. Reviews are virtual hot chocolate.

(H/C)

Thomas worked very slowly in the living room, caught between the past and the present, music the thread that connected both. He was careful not to look at Greg, nor did Greg look at him, but they were both intensely aware of each other. He could feel all the antennae out and receiving behind him. Yet Greg kept playing. That fact alone was the most reassurance he had had yet that he was making progress, even more than Lisa's statement. Greg knew that he was right here, knew that he was listening, and the music had not stopped.

If Thomas closed his eyes, he could imagine that it was his father. They had a very similar touch on the keys, technical brilliance along with individual flare. No, Thomas hadn't had any gift for playing himself, but he had listened. Music had flowed in and around his childhood home as much as oxygen. The serious practices, where he knew to observe quietly but not disrupt. The lighter moments, when his father would take requests, when he would wander around on the keys from song to song as Greg was doing now, even the musical games that he would play. Thomas had often wished that he could have that period back again just for a month, a week, even a day, so that he could pay more attention and realize that this was transient, that the sands were almost at the bottom of the hourglass, that his father wouldn't always be there. He had never truly appreciated his early family until they had been ripped away from him.

He was so grateful for those recordings. Tim had made sure to secure those. The children had had barely had any time to go through that house for mementos; the neighbor who came solemn-faced to break the news had taken the three of them to his house that night. Thomas' uncle had descended the next day, making arrangements for the funeral, taking the three kids on back to Cincinnati in the meantime. There had been one brief day when they went to the house, barely the hour Greg had threatened, and his uncle went through it like a whirlwind with a notebook, recording things of value, speculating price. Tim, the only one who really could play, had asked for their father's piano, but his uncle vetoed that immediately. Not only wasn't there room in Cincinnati, but of course, the baby grand was probably the most monetarily valuable thing in the house. Naturally it would have to be sold. Ellie had gathered what pictures she could. Thomas himself had been so lost in the swift shock of it all, as well as raging about Trigger, that he had wasted a good bit of his one opportunity kicking a tree in the back yard. Other than their clothes, which their aunt packed with swift efficiency, they took almost nothing away from that house.

There was the money, of course, after selling everything. His uncle deposited it into an account for them and told them they would each get their share at 21, plus interest. Only Tim hadn't made it to 21, so Ellie got half, and Thomas got the other half on his majority. By that time, the Marines had given him something in life he could count on again, he was doing well in his new career, and the anger was down to embers, no longer flames. He invested most of his and spent some of the rest of it on himself, though he did take enough out to have a bakery make a black cake saying in red icing, with negative signs around the rim, "The bottom line never added up, " and deliver it to his uncle at the bank during the work day. Like Greg initially with John's stone, Thomas had regretted not being able to be more blunt, but bakeries, like cemeteries, had lines they wouldn't cross. At least bakeries did back then. He wouldn't be surprised if there were a few bakeries now specializing in obscene cakes for those who wanted the perfectly appropriate message when nothing else would quite fit the recipient.

He had spent more time in this house than anybody else in this group, visiting regularly every few years, but everything was changed now, not merely Blythe's improvements to the house but his own internal change of reference. For the first time, he was with a group of people openly, everyone except the girls knowing who he was. He didn't have to try to pretend it all meant nothing to him. The release was refreshing, even if also flavored with the bitter aftertaste of the past. All those years, trying to keep up the front in front of John, and John had already known.

Thomas had been very careful to avoid matching personality traits, at least the ones that he got from Blythe's letters, but the accuracy of those as a guide had obviously been worse than useless. Greg per her was a serious child, a bit challenging and blunt. He had never been simply playful as most children are, she had said. Thomas, rereading those letters in the last few months, had wanted to yell at her that why on earth would he be? He knew a little from following Greg's professional reputation that his son had discovered play in his adult life. Thomas hoped he would enjoy the model trains in a few weekends. At least Greg had had this piano, had found the music, and Thomas had done _one_ thing right in his older son's childhood.

And missed so much else. Thomas shifted another step along the picture wall and that time, lost in self-recrimination, he came down a little harder than he meant to on his bruised foot. He managed to hide the flinch. He was both impressed and warmed that Greg had spotted the injury this morning, because Thomas had been deliberately trying to conceal it. There had been true concern there in his son's tone for a moment. Not that there was any need; it was simply bruised, although Thomas had been surprised how much it had hurt him for the rest of last night.

He slowly sorted the pictures, making two piles for Lisa and a smaller one for himself, studying each shot as he took it off the wall. The edited past here, the painful bits removed. How perfectly Blythe.

Rachel got tired of just listening to the piano after a while, and Marina took her into the kitchen with some toys. He could hear them playing in the floor, Marina right down there with Rachel. That nanny was a gem. Greg looked at him - Thomas caught the glance out of his peripheral vision - and then picked up Abby. "Where's middle C?" he asked her softly, and she struck it immediately, proudly, looking back at him for the approval that she knew was coming. Thomas was careful to keep working and not stop to stare, but he couldn't blame Greg for wanting to show her off. She was a genius - and in more ways than musically, Thomas thought.

Greg took her up and down an octave each way, Abby flawlessly finding each C, and then he let her play the melody line from Tomorrow from Annie. Thomas was soaking up every note. Finally, Greg reached for the book on top, the one Blythe had left open on the music rack, and he replaced it. "Can you find the eighth notes?" he asked Abby. She immediately pointed. One, two, three, and then suddenly, she wiggled her way off his lap and ran off, calling Marina.

They were alone. Thomas took a deep breath and walked over to stand beside the bench. "Greg," he said softly, no one in a different room able to hear, "may I have this piano?"

Greg was startled out of sarcasm. "What do you want it for? You don't play," he reminded him, bewildered.

"No. But it was yours." And maybe, someday, there might be visiting grandchildren. But even if not, Thomas wanted it.

His son's tone sharpened up a bit now. "Do you have any idea how much it would cost to ship a _piano_ to St. Louis? The military isn't picking up the moving bill this time."

"Greg, I'm drawing two retirements, plus Social Security, and my house is paid off. Might as well spend it on things I want." He waited, poised, ready to not recoil at a verbal slap.

Greg looked back at the music, Blythe's music. The moment stretched out painfully between them. "Hell, you bought it anyway," he said finally.

Thomas relaxed. _Don't react too strongly,_ he reminded himself, although he wanted to cheer. "Thank you, Greg. I will take care of it."

Abby returned at that moment, running into the room as eagerly as if she had switched personalities for a moment with Rachel. She was holding a stuffed toy, and as she thrust it at her father, Thomas saw that it was a pair of musical notes. Stuffed notes. "Eight notes!" she announced proudly. "Find eight notes."

Greg picked her up, smiling. "You're right. You did find some more eighth notes." The lesson resumed, and Thomas wandered back over to the wall to continue his slow-motion work and to listen. He felt like singing. No, on second thought, he didn't. He felt like listening to his son and his granddaughter.

(H/C)

Cuddy, working her way through the desk, was listening hard. There were rare moments of low conversation, too low to catch, but it was obviously conversation, not a fight, not even a one-sided effort at starting a fight. She hoped that this musical interlude would help take away some of the sting for Thomas of other remarks today. She was amazed how open her husband was being with the music, but he always had been most at ease at a keyboard.

Rachel, playing in the kitchen floor, asked where the bathroom was, and Marina stood up to go take her. "I'd better check Abby, too," she said. "They're getting to be such big girls."

Cuddy looked at her watch. Well over an hour had passed now, and that brought up another thought. She pushed Blythe's desk chair back and stood up herself, deciding that it was definitely time for a break. She followed Marina and Rachel into the living room, where House had just set Abby down on the floor. Apparently, the lesson was over. "Come here, Abby," Marina called, and Abby walked over to her.

House turned to Cuddy. Thomas, almost done with the picture wall, paused and looked around as well. "Any luck?" her husband asked her.

"No will so far. I've found utility bills, lots of volunteer paperwork, travel brochures from her club, and an order of what plants she wanted to add this spring." She gave a stretch, careful not to exaggerate it too much. "I decided it was time for a break before I grew to that chair."

The carefully directed subliminal thought hit home as he suddenly realized how long _he_ had been sitting still. His leg's protests finally reached through the musical cloud, and he stood up a bit stiffly. "Good idea," he said, but his tone had gone flat. He walked down the room and back again, trying to work the kinks out without looking like he was trying to work the kinks out. No custom-made piano bench cushion here. This bench was simple wood, and his leg hadn't appreciated that extended session. He turned again, shooting a challenging glare at Thomas, daring him to comment.

Thomas studied the last picture and added it to a pile. "These two piles are for you, Lisa." She started to protest before realizing that one of those piles was the Blythe pictures and was clearly meant for House eventually. "This pile is mine, but if you really want anything, we can have copies made."

"Thanks, Thomas." She started a closer inspection as House took another turn of the room behind her. Thomas moved over to the closest armchair and sat down just a bit heavily. That was all, but Cuddy immediately came to attention and forgot pictures for the moment. She crossed to him and knelt on the floor, capturing his right foot. "Hold still," she ordered as she started removing his shoe.

"Lisa," he protested. "It's nothing, really. You don't have to worry."

"Wrong," House corrected. "She _does_ have to worry. It's an RDA with her, like vitamins. If she doesn't get her quota in every day, she thinks it's unhealthy." He walked over to stand immediately behind his wife, even crowding her, in fact.

Cuddy got the shoe off and started on the sock. "Shut up, Greg. In fact, both of you shut up. Supposedly _little_ injuries can turn into big problems. Remember, Calvin Coolidge's son died from a blister on his foot he got while playing tennis."

"Actually, Calvin Coolidge's son died from an infection that went systemic after he was too much of an idiot to remember that he was supposed to put socks on before shoes. _He's _ahead of Calvin, Jr., at least, since he obviously knows about that step." As ever, House didn't address Thomas in person by any name or title at all.

Cuddy ignored her husband and succeeded in working the sock off, her other hand firmly on Thomas' ankle, preventing escape. It didn't take the diagnostics department to spot the problem here. His foot had an ugly reddish-purple mark extending back from the tip for the full length of the big toe. "Thomas!"

He shrugged. "Like I said, it's bruised."

She was almost afraid to touch it. That toe hurt just to look at it. "It could be broken."

House bent over, subtly propping himself against Cuddy as he dropped the cane and reached down. He captured the foot and ran his hands quickly along it, taking the toe through a range of motion, palpating the joint, finally checking the distal pulses at the ankle. "Nope, just bruised. You sure did a good job on it, though. About an hour or so after midnight?"

Thomas looked impressed all over again. "Yes."

Cuddy sighed. "Thomas, turn the _light_ on next time." No doubt that was why he hadn't slept well the rest of the night because of it throbbing. No wonder he looked tired.

"She needs to lecture, too. That's step two, follows worrying." House ran his hands along the foot one more time, then collected his cane and straightened up, having to use Cuddy's shoulder to do it. His leg hadn't liked that whole maneuver. "Diagnosis: One whacked foot. It's not still bleeding under the skin, and pulses are strong. Try to be nice to it for a few days. Other than that, take two aspirin and don't call me in the morning." He backed away and resumed his leg-stretching pace around the room

Thomas hid his smile. His son had been just as interested in that exam as Cuddy was, and his hands had been surprisingly gentle. Skillful hands, too, playing a human body as he played an instrument.

Cuddy started putting his sock and shoe back on. "I've been having you working in here on your feet, too."

"Lisa, it's _fine_. I wasn't running a marathon. And I am taking care of it; I even skipped my usual walk this morning."

"You had trouble sleeping last night because of it hurting, didn't you?" His expression confirmed it. She looked at her watch and came to her feet. "Well, I'm giving you a different assignment for the moment. We're going to want something to eat soon. Go find us some lunch, all right?"

Thomas looked at Greg regretfully, but his son obviously needed a piano break himself. That bench was hard on his leg. At least Thomas wouldn't be missing further music while he was out. "Okay, Lisa." He stood up. "Really, I'm fine, I promise. Don't worry."

Seized suddenly with the memory of Blythe only a week ago today, seemingly perfectly fine, Cuddy grabbed him, hugging him fiercely, fighting back tears. He was startled at first, then almost in slow motion put his arms around her and returned the embrace. "It's all right," he reassured her.

House had stopped across the room and was watching. "She does _that_, too," he commented.

"All women do," Thomas replied. And nobody since Emily had given him a purely spontaneous hug of concern or connection like that. Plenty of friends in the interval between, yes, but the planned sympathy hug and the "you-need-a-hug" hug were a different species entirely from this.

Cuddy released him and ran one hand across her eyes. "Shut up, both of you," she said again. Replacing her poise like a garment, she walked over to the stacks of pictures to resume her aborted inspection. Thomas could feel Greg's eyes on him all the way to the door.

Once outside in his rental car, he popped in the CD of his father, and with the music of the morning alive again, he drove off in search of lunch and also of a chocolate milkshake for Greg, silent thanks - his son's only accepted kind - for the gift of this morning.


	42. Chapter 42

A/N: Here's another brief update. Sorry for the shortness, but that's what you get at the moment. Next update when I have time will include Jensen, Wilson, and more adventures from the house sorting, including finding one thing that House definitely had not expected. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

(H/C)

After Thornton left, House limped slowly over to the far wall, now blank. He stood there looking at it for a moment with Cuddy watching him closely; his eyes were fixed on the bare wall itself, not on the stacks of removed pictures.

Just then Rachel scampered back down the hall, promptly taking a head count. "Thomas?" she called, looking around.

"He'll be back in a little while," Cuddy told her. "He went to find lunch."

"Yay!" She ran a circle, then headed for the bag of toys in the kitchen, and within seconds, they heard the whinnies and snorts of her stuffed horse.

House looked away from the depersonalized wall. "I still think we might have to put that thing to sleep one of these days," he grumbled.

Marina smiled. "She was trying so hard to stay quiet earlier while you were still playing. She said the horse was taking a nap." She walked over for a closer survey of the current picture Cuddy was holding, one of House at roughly age 10, lost in thought, analyzing something off at an angle to the camera. The differential expression was in place even that young, but on very close observation, there was also a _tautness_ there concealed desperately beneath the surface, and the eyes were too old for the rest of the thin face. Marina's expression softened in wistful regret looking at it.

House sighed. "One comment about my ears sticking out like Jeep fenders or me being cute, and you'll be wearing that picture around your neck."

Abby, in Marina's arms, was studying the picture herself, looking from it to him for comparison. Rachel galloped back into the room with the stuffed Ember and ran up to him. "Ember says hi! Say hi, Daddy."

He turned away instead, pointedly ignoring Marina's and Cuddy's smiles. "What do you want for lunch, Rachel?"

"Pizza!" It was her favorite, though Cuddy didn't let her have it too often. "You tell Thomas?"

Cuddy pulled out her cell phone, yielding the battle for healthier options for today. "I'll pass the order along."

"I wanna talk." Rachel reached for the phone.

House tensed up even more and grabbed her hand. "Let Mama tell him, Rachel. Why don't you and I see if there's anything already here to go with it? Grandma liked ice cream."

Rachel paused for a vote between Thomas and ice cream, and Cuddy gave her a light boost toward the kitchen. "Go ahead and help him check out the freezer, Rachel. But ice cream is for dessert, not first." Rachel went on into the kitchen, hand in hand with her father, and Cuddy and Marina looked at each other, no smiles now but a mutual progress assessment.

Abby looked from one face to the other, then squirmed. "Down," she insisted. "I help." Marina put her down, and Abby headed after her father with an intensity matched by the Greg in the picture, only without the sadness behind those eyes.

"She's going to work things out before too long," Marina said very softly.

Cuddy nodded and looked after her husband with her own gnawing worry. "So much has happened in just one week. All this at once is pushing him."

"You'd better call before Thomas gets something else," Marina prompted, and Cuddy snapped back to action and dialed.

"Lisa, I'm fine, I promise." Thomas didn't even waste time on a hello before diving into reassurance.

She smiled, feeling a little better suddenly. "I'm glad to hear it, but I still reserve the right to check up on you. Right now, though, I have a lunch request from Rachel. Did you buy anything yet?"

"Not yet. I had just spotted a UPS Store and pulled in. We're going to need boxes."

"Yes. Thank you, Thomas. I'll pay you back."

He dug in unexpectedly, and she realized from the slight edge on his tone that he had been thinking of his own regrets over the past as he drove. "_No. _Let me pay for it. I contributed to this mess; it's only right that I pitch in toward trying to sort it out."

"Thomas . . ." she started.

"Besides, family doesn't keep running balance sheets on each other. What does Rachel want for lunch?"

"Pizza. She loves pizza. Only nothing with big meat pieces, at least for the girls, and don't get extra crispy or thick crust. I have to dissect it a little for them, especially Abby."

"Easily dissectable pizza, check. Any other preferences among the group?"

"Wilson likes all flavors. Greg and Jensen like meat lover's, and I'll take mine as veggie. Marina likes about any kind, too."

"I can handle that. Okay, pizza coming up before long. What about drinks? Coke? Juice? I had something special in mind for Greg already as thanks, but what do the girls like?"

"Juice is fine for them, Thomas, and yes, Coke will do for the rest of us." She noted that he hadn't suggested beer and realized that he probably had picked up on Wilson's abstinence by now and didn't want to call more public attention to it. "Thanks for what?"

She heard his smile and could picture it lighting up his whole face much as his son's rare smile did. "He gave me the piano."

She closed her eyes briefly, savoring the progress along with him. "I'm glad, Thomas. I'd better go now. See you in a little while."

"All right. And this deliveryman already got his tip. You're a good hugger, Lisa."

She felt her eyes welling up again and retreated into light lecturing, fighting to keep her composure. "_You_, on the other hand, are out of practice. Your friends back in St. Louis have been falling down on the job."

He sighed. "I know I am. But it's not their fault." All at once, she was struck again by his stark aloneness. Everything that had happened in the last six months was a forbidden topic for him; nobody in his usual circles would have any idea. He had talked about his son with Emily, he said, but Emily was gone now, unable to be his confidante in the latest and by far the hardest chapter. Cuddy didn't reply, and he continued quickly as if shaking himself out of memories. "I'll be back soon. Bye, Lisa." He hung up.

Cuddy hit end, blinking back the tears. Just then, part of her longed to smack her husband upside his stubborn head, while the other part wanted to embrace him even more fiercely than she had Thomas, to hold him tight and never let go. Death might have ripped Blythe away, but it couldn't have either of these two, not yet, not for a long time. They had to not only work things out all the way but to enjoy it for years and years of true family. Abruptly, there were arms around _her_, real arms, and she returned the hug before backing away with a smile. "Thank you, Marina. We'd better see what he's doing before they all eat ice cream now." Marina released her, and the two women walked into the kitchen.

House had finished his survey of the refrigerator, which was just inside the door between the kitchen and the living room, and he was now moving along the row of cabinets next to it, opening each for a quick inventory. Rachel and Abby, framing him like bookends on the floor, were both sucking on suspiciously chocolated fingers, and he had just removed one of his own from his mouth.

"Greg!" she protested. "I said that ice cream would be for dessert."

"No bowl, so it doesn't count," he insisted.

She gave up for the moment. Thomas probably _would_ be a while, at least half an hour. She opened the fridge herself to start her own list and looked at the shelves in surprise.

"There's really not a lot here," House said, suddenly serious again. "Basic baking stuff and some cans, but even in the cabinets, there's not much. Either she let the supplies run down before the trip deliberately or she didn't eat at home that often."

She walked over to his side. "She had a lot of friends to eat out with. She had found a whole social circle here."

"Yeah." He hit the end of the room and turned the corner in his inspection. The cabinets from there on held dishes.

"I'd probably better be setting the table," Cuddy commented.

He rolled his eyes. "Lisa, you don't _have_ to set the table for pizza." For the first time, he looked over at the table in the other end of the room as he said it - and froze.

The table. This one had been bought when he was 10, a heavy wooden one that Blythe had liked. Solid, she had called it. A _family_ table, like the one her parents had had. Only the family that ate around this table had been the one of his youth. Deception, aloneness, and fear gripped him as the years melted away. For a moment, he could almost _see_ John sitting on the other side of it again, acting the role perfectly and all the while his eyes full of private plans and private amusements. The taste of pepper was right on House's tongue.

"Greg?" Her hands - no, _their _hands - on him. House blinked and snapped back to the present. Cuddy had both hands on his right arm, and both of his girls had attached to his good leg, looking up at him with worry.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Let's eat in the living room instead."

She looked guilty. "Of course." It hadn't occurred to her that it would be the same table, and she didn't know why it hadn't. It looked decades old. "I'm sorry."

A little shaky but steadying now, he moved in, claiming the required kiss, and both girls pressed in, too. A whinny came from somewhere near his left knee as the stuffed horse was squeezed in the family pile, and they broke apart, laughing. Rachel gave him an impish grin, leaving him to wonder if that whinny had been intentional or not. "Ember says hi."

He looked down at her, his daughter, his family, the warm present, and that time, he answered. "Hi, Ember." He turned his back resolutely on the table. "Come on. Soon as . . . he gets back, we'll have pizza in the living room."

"Yay!" Rachel raced into the living room accompanied by hoofbeats, and he followed, Cuddy's hand reassuringly on his back all the way.


	43. Chapter 43

Jensen came down the hall carrying a box, and Cuddy zeroed in on it instantly. "Legal papers?"

The psychiatrist handed it over. "They seem to be, but judging from the dust on the box and the dates on the first few, I don't think they're too current. This was on the top shelf in the closet."

Cuddy sighed but took it anyway. "Old legal papers are closer than anybody else has come so far, at least." She ran quickly through the contents, skimming, but nothing titled Last Will and Testament jumped out at her, and she set it aside. "I think you're right, but I'll go through them one at a time this afternoon. We're on lunch break right now."

"Did Thornton go to get food?" Jensen asked, looking around the room. Abby and Rachel were playing with stuffed animals in the floor with Marina in a nearby chair watching. Cuddy and her husband were both on the couch very close together; she looked worried, and he looked tenser than before. Jensen guessed that he had run into something with bad associations from the past, but having him here at all was progress, and the piano was a strong ally. Hopefully he would continue to see Blythe's house as the mixture of positive and negative that it was.

"Yes, he'll be back soon with pizza. That and boxes. What else have you found so far?"

"That bedroom is mainly a storage room now. There are several photo albums and a box of pictures; I set those aside for you." His expression added the unspoken postscript that those were pictures that would need careful handling and probably would wind up in her own storage at the moment. He had gotten annoyed himself all over again at Blythe while looking at them. In every one, either it was a group shot, with the body language all but screaming the truth to the psychiatrist, or Greg had some sort of visible injury. "Blythe had obviously been sorting things back there. There is a separate box that has pictures just of John, but it wasn't with the other pictures. His clothes are simply gone."

House came to attention. "Even the uniforms in the closet?" John had always been ready for parade, even in retirement.

"Yes. There's are _no_ clothes of his at all."

The differential expression came to life, the puzzle irresistible. "I can't see her having a backyard bonfire. Maybe she just threw them away or gave the undamaged clothes to Goodwill."

Cuddy was impressed, assigning Blythe a few posthumous points. She had at least wanted to spare her son that potential chore. "She'd cleared out _everything_ of his?"

"Almost. The pictures, but the ones of just John were separate. There is basically nothing of his personal items back there. Most of what's in the closet is hers, summer weather things. She probably switched out the clothes with what was in the closet in the smaller bedroom each season. Other assorted storage things. I checked pockets; no keys, no box numbers at the bank, no paperwork." He offered her the written list he'd made from the room, and House leaned over to see it, too. "The furniture probably dates from John's days. It's in good shape, though. Easily salable at a secondhand shop."

"That's probably what we'll wind up doing with the furniture. _Most _of the furniture." She glanced at the piano. "One other thing, Greg. Did you see that little desk in the corner of the kitchen?"

He shuddered, remembering the table, and she squeezed his arm tightly. "No. I didn't look that far."

"I don't think that was around with John; it looks fairly new. Everything in it is current, too. It's very feminine. A miniature roll top with ivory drawer knobs. It can't be over 4 feet wide, if that, and it's not that heavy. I checked."

He sighed. "Let me get this straight. _You_ want Mom's desk?"

"Not me exactly. I thought that maybe, eventually, one of the girls might like to have it." She gave him another squeeze, then stood up. "Just a minute." She headed for the kitchen, and Jensen sat down on the other side of House.

"Holding up okay?" he asked very softly. Nobody else in the room could have made out the words. The girls were absorbed in their play at the moment, and Marina was on the other side of the room and pointedly not watching the two men right now. Jensen had already worked out from her expression that whatever memory House had run into, she was aware of it and had seen his battle, but if House dodged answering, he would let him for now.

"It's the same kitchen table," House admitted after a moment, just as softly.

Jensen flinched. During sessions, he had heard many meal-time displays of John's sadistic streak. But House was still here in the living room, sitting down; he hadn't bolted outside and insisted on leaving. "You obviously beat the memories, though. That's good."

"With help," House qualified.

Jensen shrugged. "So what? That doesn't deduct points. Actually, it adds them."

Cuddy returned just then, sitting back down next to her husband and holding out the cell phone. "There."

House studied the picture. "That definitely wouldn't have been here when John was alive. He wouldn't have had something that _sissy_ looking in the house. It is kind of cute, though." He easily could imagine his mother sitting at it.

"Would you mind if we had that around?" Cuddy asked carefully. "It would make a neat present for Rachel or Abby someday."

Rachel perked up immediately, her attention caught by the word. "Present? Where?"

They all laughed, and Wilson, coming down the hall just then, wanted in on the joke, so Cuddy explained about the desk again. He slipped into the kitchen for a look himself and returned, nodding.

"It does really look like her," he agreed.

"I have my grandfather's desk in my office, and I always enjoy the special significance," Jensen put in. "It's a neat connection to him."

House pictured Jensen's desk, which was far larger and more solid than this one. "Good thing you don't want to ship _his,_" he said to Cuddy. "That thing probably weighs a ton. It's even bigger than your office desk, Lisa."

Rachel trotted into the kitchen for her own inspection, then returned, looking unimpressed. "Just a _old_ desk," she dismissed, promptly refocusing on trying to get Mr. Bear to ride the stuffed Ember.

Wilson grinned. "One of these days, Rachel, you'll actually want grown-up stuff."

"Greg?" Cuddy asked.

"This one's lighter?" he asked. "I all but had to take out a loan to ship yours."

"Worth every penny," she assured him, giving him a quick kiss. "But yes, this one is much lighter. It's not solid wood, just veneer."

"You've already decided anyway," he grumbled, though he knew she hadn't. "Don't complain to me when you have to reshuffle your perfectly arranged furniture to stick it somewhere. Can't just put that in a box to keep until the girls are older."

"I know," Cuddy agreed, her mind already starting to gnaw on that logistical detail. "Thank you, Greg. How's it going, Wilson?"

"She liked romances and murder mysteries," the oncologist replied. "There are two bookcases full back there. Other than that, clothes mostly. I haven't found a will. I even looked under the mattress." He had been proud of that thought, thinking it fit in perfectly with her character and the books, but the bed was only a bed, not a safe deposit box.

"Did you look under the mattress, too?" Cuddy asked Jensen. He nodded. "Patsy said there's a retired lawyer at the center who might know who Blythe used, but he's out of town for a few weeks."

Just then, Thomas' rental car was heard pulling up outside. Wilson went out to see if he needed help carrying things, and a minute later, Thomas entered with two pizza boxes balanced on one hand, a sack of drinks and a Dairy Queen cup in the other. Wilson, entering right behind him, had a large pot with a bag of potting soil stuffed in it for easier carrying, as well as several flattened shipping boxes tucked under one arm. Thomas had left the door open for him, but the oncologist, his hands too full, dropped the boxes just as he came through it, and Cuddy jumped up to go rescue the pot and dirt.

"Thank you, Thomas," she said, setting them aside. "I suppose Blythe probably has a shovel in the garage or somewhere."

"I thought she would," he replied. "I wasn't sure about the pot and the soil. She doesn't seem to have houseplants, just yard plants." He set his pizza boxes down on the coffee table with the sack of drinks alongside, then offered the Dairy Queen cup to his son silently. House stared at it for a moment, and Cuddy watched carefully. The last time Thomas had given her husband a milkshake, House had pointedly paid him - _over_ paid him - back in cash on the spot. The room seemed to be holding its breath for a few seconds. Then House took the cup, giving it a trial slurp. Chocolate. Thomas relaxed.

Rachel and Abby were both trying to pry into the rest of lunch already, Rachel into the pizza boxes, Abby into the sacks, since she already knew what pizza boxes held. Wilson finished picking up the scattered shipping boxes, closed the door, and propped them against the inside wall. "We need paper towels," he said. "Surely she at least had that, even if she didn't have a will." He headed for the kitchen, returning a minute later with a full roll. "And more chairs. I'll bring a few from the table."

House tensed up again, and Cuddy firmly vetoed. "No chairs, Wilson. We'll make it work with what's here."

Wilson looked puzzled for a moment, looking from her to House, then realized that must be John's table. Of course. "Yeah. Right. We'll fit somehow."

It took a little adjusting, but finally, they were all munching, Rachel in Marina's lap and Abby in Cuddy's. Rachel at first protested that the horse wanted pizza, too, but Thomas jumped in even ahead of Cuddy's firm negative. "Rachel, there's a problem there. Horses don't eat pizza." He was glad she liked it this much, though. Watching her hang onto that horse was worth a hundred times the price he'd paid for it.

She looked over at him, deferring to the actual-horsed expert. "They don't?"

"No. They don't like it. You know what horses like?"

"What?" she asked him.

"Carrots. They just _love_ carrots." Rachel's expression was enough to make the rest of them smile. Carrots weren't among her favorites. "Vegetables are healthy, and horses know it. Your horse wouldn't want pizza, and we don't have carrots, so it will just miss this meal."

She looked at the horse, then slowly put it in the floor by Marina's feet. "Ember," she told him again. "My horsey is Ember. Like your horse."

He smiled at her. "Thank you, Rachel. I'm sure Ember is honored to share it. That's a good name."

Abby, looking over to her father's cup, suddenly came to attention. "DQ," she said. She reached out and traced the capital letters on the cup. "DQ." Thomas watched her, soaking it in. Cramped and inadequate seating or not, he was loving every minute of this lunch even more than the formal meals in the hotel dining room.

"Right," House told her. "DQ. Which spells yummy stuff. Speaking of which. . ." He grabbed another piece of meat lover's to illustrate and shoved down a too-large bite. This lunch was refreshing in a way. There was no greater antithesis to eating a meal at the table with John than eating pizza straight out of the box informally in the living room. The fact that this had been John's living room once just made it sweeter. He took another bite.

Conversation was kept light during the meal, but as House finished his last piece, he looked over at Cuddy, who was clearly both will-chasing and furniture-rearranging mentally while feeding herself and Abby. "Relax, Lisa. Even if there isn't a will, I'll get the house eventually anyway as her son."

"After a whole lot more hassle," Cuddy said. "She had that bad accident three years ago; she _had_ to be aware something could happen. It would make perfect sense to make arrangements. So where is it?"

"You sure it's not in a book?" House asked Wilson. "You said she liked murder mysteries. Did you shake all of them out individually?"

"No," Wilson admitted. "It would have to be a pretty small will to fit there, though."

"Shake them out," Cuddy insisted. "And did you look under both sides of the mattress?"

"_Yes_, I looked under both sides of the mattress. Are you sure it isn't in that desk?"

"Positive."

"Unless there's a secret compartment," her husband threw in, getting into the spirit of the chase. "Maybe we'll fail today but discover it 10 years from now on one of the girls' birthdays when they get the desk as a present. Think of the irony. All those years, it was right in our own house under our noses, and we never knew."

She glared at him. "This is _serious_, Greg." She was glad he could be playful in this house, though, especially after the earlier flashback. He had come a long way in three years.

He stuck out his tongue at her and noisily slurped down the end of his milkshake. Thomas smiled, watching them, feeling the house itself seem to relax around him, finally free of John's influence.

(H/C)

The search continued all afternoon. Abby eventually fell asleep, though Rachel was determinedly not yielding to a nap today, a battle she would lose but much later than her sister. Marina took her outside to let her play in the back yard for a while; the temperature was chilly but warmer than the last few days, quite nice for January, really. Cuddy remained in the kitchen for a while sorting, but the box of old legal paperwork proved to be just that, not a will in sight, mostly old tax returns and things predating John's death. Thomas, firmly put on light duty by Cuddy, drifted around the house helping out where he could and trying to keep watching the girls and his son without getting objectionably close to them.

Wilson went back to the bookcases and shook out every last mystery on the shelf, coming up blank, but House, finally making his way into Blythe's bedroom, surprised him by picking up an old atlas. "You want _that_?" the oncologist said. "You're a walking atlas already."

"Something to teach the girls from," House said thoughtfully, his face distant. He and Blythe had taken imaginary trips from this atlas, another rare escape from his childhood prison. Oddly for someone who lived the constantly uprooted life of the military, she had always wanted to travel, not to be stationed somewhere but to really see it as a vacation. He was glad she had found that in her club the last few years.

Holding the book gently, he walked back to the living room, where boxes had been assembled and were being loaded for their ultimate destinations, and he put it into a Princeton box of pictures. He looked around the living room quickly - nobody in sight: Thomas in the kitchen watching Abby sleep and watching Rachel through the window; Cuddy in there with the paperwork; Jensen in the garage now - and then he picked up that _Sound of Music_ book off the piano rack and the other few music books piled on the top corner. They might come in handy teaching Abby. He gently placed them in the box, then dug down, pulling out a few pictures to go back on top of the books, hiding them from view for the moment.

Rachel came back inside just then, and House moved quickly away from the boxes as she and Marina entered the living room, Thomas trailing like a sheepdog. She ran up to her father. "I can run like you."

"I know." He picked her up with an effort; she was more solid than Abby, and he wasn't sure how much longer this was going to work.

"Did you see me?"

"Not that time, Rachel, but I've seen you run lots of times. You're very good at it."

She yawned, rubbing her eyes. "I can run."

"I saw you," Thomas said tentatively from the doorway.

She turned to him immediately. "I can run fast."

"Yes, you can. I could see that."

House handed Rachel off to Marina and walked toward the piano. "What about a little more music, Rachel?" He settled in on the bench, again wishing for his cushion from home, and started playing. No _Flight of the Bumblebee_ this time. He played soft, gentle melodies, and Rachel was asleep within 10 minutes. Marina stood up to go put her on the blanket in the kitchen with Abby. Thomas after a moment walked over to continue boxing pictures in slow motion, and House played on, thoughtful meandering around the keys, mostly light blues now.

A while later, Cuddy appeared in the living room doorway. "Come outside with me for a minute, Greg." She had Blythe's shovel in hand; Jensen had found it easily, though the garage didn't seem to contain a will any more than the rest of the house did.

Her husband sighed and stood up slowly. He needed to stretch his leg again anyway. This bench was murder on infarcted thighs. Cuddy picked up both of their coats and offered him his, then took the pot and the soil, and they went into the front yard.

The hours of work all this outdoor landscaping represented struck her all over again, especially given that Blythe had had slight balance issues and used a quad cane since being hit by a car. A true labor of love. "She did most of this after her accident," she said.

"Yeah." House turned away from her, limping heavily around the yard, inspecting the line of bushes. "This is _your_ idea, you know, so you're the one who gets to dig in January."

"I know." She looked at the shrubs. "Which one do you want?"

He took another limping turn and then stopped. "You pick. You get to hold the damned thing the whole plane trip back."

Concealing her smile, she plotted her attack on the shrub he had stopped next to. The ground _was_ hard to dig in in January, using a shovel was unfamiliar, and she was sweating by the time she had the bush potted. The remainder of the sack of soil neatly filled the hole; she wondered how many times over the years Thomas had seen Emily gauging potting soil required to job. He clearly had an eye for it. House watched her work, looking away every time he thought she might be watching him. With the bush safely prepared for transplant, she started to carry it back into the house, then changed course and simply took it to the van. It was already at outside temperature anyway.

House smoothed out the disturbed dirt a little with his foot. "If Patsy's brother docks us the price of one bush, just remember who stole it." He suddenly smiled, one of his rare full smiles that lit his whole face, as she walked back from the van. She was still holding the shovel, planning to return it to the house.

"What?" she demanded suspiciously, and in the next moment, he had pulled out his cell phone and snapped a picture. "Greg!" The hand without the shovel rose to check her hair.

"Now _that_ is a picture I never thought I'd get. Lisa Cuddy-House with a shovel in hand, a couple of dirt stains, and hair out of place. Wonder what the hospital would think of that one."

She sighed. "Watch it, Greg. I'm armed." She brandished the shovel threateningly, and he turned in mock fear and made his best limp for the shelter of the house.

Back inside, the search was winding down. Wilson came out of the spare room just as Jensen returned from the garage. "I'd swear there's no will back there. And yes, I looked under that mattress, too. Both sides."

Jensen shook his head. "The garage is nicely organized, but there's nothing legal out there." Not that he had expected there to be. Even for Blythe, a garage would be an odd place to put your will. He had tackled the garage in order to find the shovel.

Cuddy felt the familiar irritation kicking in. "_Damn it_, Blythe!" she snapped. "You _had_ to know things could happen, so why didn't you make arrangements?" She couldn't resist a quick, guilty look a moment later toward the kitchen, where the girls were asleep, and was glad they hadn't heard her swear.

"But we've looked everywhere," Wilson insisted. "There isn't a will here, so she must have . . ." He broke off as Thomas came to attention, his face suddenly looking eerily familiar.

"The piano bench," he stated, not a suggestion but a fact. "If she wanted to make sure that Greg would be able to find something important without her around to ask, she would put it in the piano bench."

"But he hardly ever uses music," Cuddy protested, then stopped. "You're right. She would." A sweet thought, trying to make things easier for her son, but based on incomplete knowledge of him. Perfectly Blythe.

House had already limped over to the bench he had spent a few hours sitting on today, and he opened it quickly. Two more elementary level music books. Below that a stapled couple of typed pages titled clearly across the top Last Will and Testament. Below that an envelope, sealed, and written across the front in his mother's unmistakable handwriting was, "To Greg, to be opened upon my death."

He stood there stunned, staring at it, a letter from beyond the grave. Cuddy came up quickly to join him, and he numbly handed her the will, but she hardly looked at it, too busy following his riveted gaze. The others crowded around, everyone looking at the inscription. No one said a word. Slowly, House turned away from them, limping back to Blythe's bedroom, holding the sealed envelope as if it might burn his fingers, and the thud of the bedroom door as he closed it behind him echoed through the stilled house.


	44. Chapter 44

Cuddy paced a round of the living room, then stopped again at the end nearest the hall, staring at that closed door. She turned to Jensen. "How long do you think I should give him?"

The psychiatrist looked very worried himself. "15 minutes at most," he replied. House needed to read the letter alone, but he didn't need to react to it alone.

Thomas walked over to the armchair and sat down, and those few steps were the first time that anybody in the group other than House had seen him favoring his foot today. He locked both hands in front of him like he was fighting to control them and afraid they might wander off to strangle somebody on their own. "I hope she . . ." he started, his voice low and tight, and then trailed off.

Wilson nodded, understanding. He had fought his own anger against Blythe and in fact had been led by it to reveal the abuse to her. "She was always a little oblivious. Hopefully in something like a death letter, she would take time and really think about what she was saying. Assuming she wrote that after she knew the truth about John. Surely she would have ripped it up by now if it came before. When is the will dated, Cuddy?"

Cuddy flipped to the end signatures distractedly. "About a month after her car accident. She knew then." She didn't even glance at the preceding text yet, her whole attention focused on that bedroom door. She looked at her watch and paced another circle. Marina watched her silently, as concerned as the rest of them.

Jensen looked over at Thomas. At this moment, he easily could believe everything he had heard about House's father. No longer did Thomas look nondescript or amiable. This was the still-fit ex-Marine who had gone to the defense attorney's home after the verdict last summer to punish him for attacking his son on the stand. Only Jensen and Cuddy knew about that encounter from House, and Thomas himself didn't realize any of them knew. But yes, push him far enough, and he would act sharply and decisively, his edge undulled by age. But Blythe was dead. Just now, watching Thomas wonder what she was doing to their son this time, Jensen thought that might be a fortunate thing for Blythe. The psychiatrist looked at his watch, unable to stop sorting through his own scenarios. Even the best case he could imagine was yet another emotional bullet to someone who had already taken more of them in the last week than anyone should. And then there were the worst case scenarios.

Cuddy stopped her agitated lap of the living room again at the entry to the hall, as close as she could get for now while she tried to give him a little space, but every sense was straining toward that door. All she heard was resounding silence.

(H/C)

_Gregory, _

_If you're reading this, I guess I'm dead. Either that, or you found it somehow and couldn't resist the puzzle and had to open it. I'll always remember you like that, the little boy on some scientific experiment, needing to know more, like that time in Egypt when you were determined to learn all you could about mummies. _

_They just announced the verdict on tonight's news against that awful man Chandler. I am so proud of you, Greg. Standing up to him, helping all those kids. But I'm worried, too. I couldn't stop thinking about things the last few days ever since you asked if I'd heard from Thomas lately and then told me not to talk to him if he did call. I wish we could talk about him. I've tried a few times to bring him up since I found out about John, but you always shut down and didn't want to discuss him, and then in that call the other night, you sounded so angry at him. So I had to write this._

_First of all, I'll say again that I apologize so much for missing things. I know by now that doesn't fix the past, but I'd do anything to have it all over again, Greg, and have another chance. I should have seen it myself and done something to stop it. But about Thomas, he never had the chance that I did, Greg. John was happy at first when I was pregnant and when you were born. I know it upset you when I said that the other night, too, but it's the truth. He was happy for a while, and I was so glad to give him what he wanted. But Thomas was only stationed with us for those few years, and John still adored you when Thomas left. After that, he couldn't have visited more than nine or ten times while you were growing up. He tried not to pay too much attention. He and his wife visited us now and then after you left, too, but he only saw you with John for those few hours when he visited when you were a kid. _

_What he did have was letters. I wrote to him a lot, Greg. I gave him updates and sent him pictures. Dozens and dozens of letters over the years. I always told him everything was fine, that we were a happy family except for routine strong-willed kid things with a dad who was military. I thought we were. So that's what Thomas heard, over and over. Don't be mad at him, Greg. I was the one who kept him from seeing it. It was my fault. _

_So that's my last request to you, since I'm dead. Unless you just found the letter somehow. If I'm still alive, I'll ask it anyway. Please, Greg, get in touch with Thomas. His address and phone number are at the bottom of this letter. Call him or write to him and let him tell you his side. Listen to him. If I'm dead, he's all the family you have now. Even that Chandler monster got a chance to put on a defense for himself. Let Thomas tell you what he knew, what I had told him in all those letters. Just give him a chance. _

_I'm so glad you found Lisa and that you have the girls now. I wish so much that things had been different when you were growing up, but I know it's too late for that. But I always did love you. Goodbye, Greg._

_Love,_

_Mom_

He sat on her bed, the letter held out slightly because he didn't have his reading glasses on, but he wasn't having trouble seeing the words. They burned as if written in fire. At least he wasn't having trouble seeing the words at first. They did start blurring on about the third or fourth reading, and the letter began shaking, too. He was surprised, as if at a distance, to realize that it was his _hand_ that was shaking.

Anger entwined with the grief, anger against her for trying some sappy stunt like a last request from Mom. Anger over her death, with guilt as an ample side serving there, but damn it, why hadn't she talked to them? She could tell him to contact Thomas, but she hadn't been able to tell him she had been to a doctor and was having health problems. Anger at Thomas, tended carefully and cultivated over all those decades when he'd thought the man simply didn't care.

Then the tears started again. He wasn't aware of when he switched from the anger to simply facing again the irreversible fact that she was _dead_. Gone. That was the whole point of this letter. He would never see her again, never hear these or any other words in her voice. Yes, she definitely had made mistakes, but for so long, she had been all he had. It wasn't the wracking sobs of the cemetery this time, not a violent storm, but silent, flowing tears like a steady rain. He moved the letter away to safety, crumpling it down beside his leg, and fought unsuccessfully to stem the flood.

An arm slid around him, and Cuddy pulled him into safe harbor against her. He hadn't even heard her enter the room. One quick, embarrassed check to ensure that the door was shut and they were alone. Then he surrendered, leaning against her, closing his eyes and wishing the whole last week would go away. It didn't, of course, but neither did she.

It might have been minutes or hours before he finally straightened up. "So," he said, sniffling, "do I get the house? We'd better verify that little detail before we sell it."

Cuddy reached over to Blythe's nightstand and pulled out a few Kleenex from the box there, handing them to him firmly just as he raised his sleeve. "I don't know."

He blew his nose and then looked at her in disbelief. "You don't know? You didn't even look at the will yet?"

"No. I put it down somewhere when I came in here. I was only worried about you." She studied him, gauging. He looked taut, gearing himself up, like a runner at the starting line. The tears had stopped, but there was a desperate intensity instead that worried her more. He also looked exhausted. He was hitting his limits for today, and whatever obstacle course he now was setting up for himself, she didn't think it was one he should be doing, at least not at the moment. Her own anger against Blythe stirred, and her eyes dropped to the letter on the bed. He followed them, picked it up, and firmly folded it, putting it into his wallet. He didn't offer, and she knew better than to ask.

"We'd better get back out there before Wilson finishes reading the will and works out how to nominate himself as executor," he said.

"He was worried about you, too. We all were." She waited for his customary disclaimer diminishing Thomas from any group statement, but it didn't come. Instead, he slowly, stiffly came to his feet, obviously feeling the weight of today.

"Come on." He waited for her, though, not even taking one step on his own. She stood up and walked beside him to the door, and they opened it.

The will was still sitting untouched on the coffee table where she had left it, but Abby and Rachel had woken up and joined the group. Marina was playing with them. All the adults looked up immediately as House and Cuddy exited, their eyes worried, gauging. House distributed a general glare and challenge, and nobody made any comment on Blythe's letter. The girls frisked up, glad to see their parents again, and he picked up each for a hug, then set them down and limped on over to Thornton. He stopped squarely in front of the armchair, and Thomas came to his feet, alert but waiting, eye to eye with his son.

House took a deep breath and steeled himself, feeling Blythe's note almost as a physical weight in his wallet. "I want those letters," he demanded. "The ones from Mom, all of them, the 128 that are left. Now."


	45. Chapter 45

A/N: Sorry for the delay. This has been an incredibly difficult week. Here's a very short update, sorry it's so brief, but please, send reviews.

(H/C)

Thomas felt the dread like a physical blow, actually rocking him back slightly on his heels. All 128 letters. His son couldn't take that, not in one dose, not even in ten doses, and it was obvious that one dose was precisely what he had in mind. "Greg, I don't think. . ." he started, then trailed off as the challenge blazed up in his son's eyes.

"You're afraid of what I'll find out, aren't you?"

Rachel trotted over to them and stopped in between the two men, looking up at one and then the other. "What's wrong?" she asked with all the innocent straightforwardness of age three.

She at least distracted her father for the moment, and he looked down at her as if he had forgotten just while crossing the room to Thomas that she was in it. "Nothing," he replied, and Thomas saw the guilt in his eyes as he lied. Abby walked over and attached firmly to her father's leg, looking up, and her eyes held a concern far beyond her years. Greg sighed. "Girls, why don't you go out in the back yard with Marina to play for a while?"

"No," Abby said, and Thomas couldn't help smiling, even in the tension of the moment.

Greg picked her up and gave her another hug. "It's all right, Abby. I'll be out there in a little while to play with you, okay?"

Marina took her from him and picked up Rachel's hand, and her look at Greg was reproach as much as worry, a silent lecture that Thomas could tell was received loud and clear. Greg looked smaller suddenly as he faced her. "Come on, girls," she said gently.

"No!" Abby struggled for a minute, and Marina hung on and headed through the kitchen, pulling Rachel along, the nanny's soft reassurances audible in her wake.

Greg faced Thomas again. So much anger there, but his father also saw the fear behind it. "I need those letters," he repeated. "So you're afraid to let me see them; that says a lot. Your defense isn't that strong after all, is it?"

"I'm not afraid from my point of view but for you," Thomas clarified. "Please, Greg, think about it for a while."

Lisa closed in firmly. "He's right, Greg." He jerked away sharply from her touch, hurting his leg doing it. These two might have - undoubtedly _would_ have - a debate on this subject later, but Greg obviously wasn't going to listen to anything in front of Thomas, the outsider. Thomas felt the stab of his separate status all over again, the memory of the family lunch retreating. There needed to be a family conversation right now, but it would not, _could _not include him.

Desperate, he tried for practicality. "I don't have them with me, Greg. They're back in St. Louis."

"Then go back and _get_ them," his son snapped.

Thomas was trapped. Refusing would accomplish nothing except burning the bridge slowly being constructed between them. His only weapon here was time; flying back home, driving to the house, picking up the letters, returning to the airport, and flying back would take most of the night at best. He couldn't drag it out too much, or that would anger Greg more, but he would take as long as he possibly could. It was already late afternoon. "All right, Greg," he said softly. "I'll go get them." With one last desperate look at his son's friends and family, the people he might actually listen to without his father present, Thomas passed this time bomb into their hands and headed for the front door. With concern for his son in the front seat and anger at Blythe in the rear as his only companions, he drove slowly toward the airport.

(H/C)

Jensen came to life. "Come here a minute," he said, softly but firmly, and looked toward Blythe's bedroom.

House tightened up even more. "You can't stop me," he insisted.

"I know that. It's your decision. But it will take several hours for him to get back with the letters." The psychiatrist actually turned away from House and started for the bedroom on his own, every sense alert behind him. Slowly the limping footsteps were heard. House obviously had worked out correctly that he would be facing either Jensen or Cuddy immediately; the psychiatrist was the only possible delay she would accept. Jensen opened the door to Blythe's bedroom and went in, leaving House to enter behind him and shut it.

Back in the living room, Wilson turned to Cuddy, and the anger in his chocolate eyes reminded her of years ago, when he first found out about the abuse and had been so infuriated at Blythe's ignorance that he had taken it on himself to inform her. "Blythe wrote Thornton _128 letters_ while House was a kid?"

She looked toward the closed door. "129, actually. The only one he's ever seen, he ripped up into confetti."

"What did it say?"

She paced a tight circle. "I didn't see it, Wilson, but I'm sure you can fill in the blanks." She skidded to a halt. "I swear, if she weren't dead, I'd kill her."

Wilson looked ready to join the effort. "So Blythe sent Thornton this constant stream of _everything just rosy here _while House was growing up, and that's why he thought things were okay?"

She nodded. "He only visited for a few hours every year or two. The letters were his main source. I can't blame him for believing them. I bought the front myself over the years, lock, stock, and barrel. Nice parents, and the only problem was a strong-willed kid who didn't like limits." She barely noticed the remembered weight of her own guilt against the present worry.

"So did I," Wilson replied regretfully. He looked back toward the bedroom himself. "He can't read all that at once. There's no way. He'll hit overload."

"I know." She took another agitated turn of the living room and stopped again at the end of the hall, sending every positive thought she could to Jensen.

The forgotten will was still on the coffee table, unread.


	46. Chapter 46

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and the well wishes. I am expecting this week to be better, because there simply cannot be too many like last week in life. I still love H&F, but it is amazing how many losses personally have coincided with this first time I've ever decided to write a death fic. The total during posting of this story now stands at three. But there were also helpful people and true friends during the same week. Thanks again to all of the readers here, too. Knowing people look forward to the chapters is a lift itself.

Down to H&F, about the will, we're not there quite yet. You'll see soon what it contains. :) About Thomas and the trials of his hurried trip back to fetch the letters, he gets his own chapter in a few on that. About House, well, he deserves his title of stubborn. However, I love Jensen, and there are several surprises still in the remainder of this story. From this chapter on, Jensen takes a more prominent position than he has for the middle part of the story and has quite a full day with House coming up on Wednesday fic time, and I hope those who have said they've missed him enjoy his return.

(H/C)

House closed the bedroom door behind him as Jensen turned to face his patient. "I already know what you're going to say," he said harshly. "You think this is a bad idea. Great, your vote is duly recorded, but it's not your decision, so thanks for playing, and you can shut up now."

Jensen studied him. It was all more visible than House realized, at least to the psychiatrist: The crackling tension, the anger, the pain both present and past, and beneath it all, buried under the others but impacting their flow, were the fear and the longing. For Jensen, the worries of last night were gone, totally forgotten in the crisis. Just now, he was focused purely on the man in front of him and dealing with the emergency, much like the evening when House, after being informed about Hadley's death, was about to walk out of his session alone and, Jensen was positive, would have killed himself through inattention driving back to Princeton. No physical risk here, but an Everest-sized mental one.

Jensen paused just enough for the delay to be slightly longer than expected. "I don't think this is a bad idea," he replied, his voice even and steady.

That at least drew House's attention. "You don't?"

"No. I think it's a horrible idea."

Ice blue defiance added another log to the fire. "Too bad what you think doesn't matter, then."

"You even think it's a bad idea yourself," Jensen said, "but you think it's the only way. That's where you're wrong. There are other approaches."

"Like what?" House limped a quick circle, his leg obviously giving him hell. He fired up again before the psychiatrist could answer. "You're just trying to delay things and waste time talking. No time for talking. I need to _do_ something."

"What time are we wasting?" the psychiatrist asked. "Thornton went off to get the letters. Does us being here delay the schedule for the next plane back to St. Louis? Simply talking to me isn't going to stop the letters from coming or slow them down. It will, though, put off talking to Dr. Cuddy a little longer."

House hit the end of the room's meager pacing limits and snapped around again, flinching as his leg protested. Jensen deliberately sat down on the edge of the bed, projecting calmness with everything he had. "There are other approaches that accomplish the same thing," he repeated. "Furthermore, they do it with a whole lot less collateral damage. Do you remember when you decided to give yourself a crash course in court hearing preparation by throwing every trigger you could think of at yourself? Your whole family was involved by the end of that day."

"That was totally different."

"You're right. This is a far larger bombshell, and it will do far more damage. Everything you saw that night is a _minor_ dose compared to this. Everything Dr. Cuddy felt that afternoon, and your girls felt, too, won't even be close. But there _are_ other ways to get where you want to go."

"So tell me, Great and Psychic One, where do I want to go?" House demanded, sarcasm volume on high.

"You want to trust him," Jensen replied.

House was caught off guard by the simplicity of the statement and waited for a moment for it to expand. Jensen waited him out in silence. "I want to trust him? Bullshit. I don't even _know_ him, and I sure as hell am not interested in trusting him. Trust is in a different galaxy than we are."

"You know him a lot better than you did last week. Far better than you did six months ago. What did your mother say in that letter?"

House took another lap of his tight pacing track. "Fill it in yourself. Standard goodbye letter, always loved you, etc. You've probably read a lot of them people brought in."

"All right, I will fill it in. You used the word defense to Thornton a while ago, saying that his defense might not be so strong after all. Your mother must have brought him up in that letter and asked you to get in touch with him. She probably mentioned the letters, even offering that as the reason he missed things. I'm sure she did _not_ tell you to read the whole batch of them." That idea had Gregory House written all over it in capitals. "But she must have asked you to let Thornton give his defense, probably in those words. If it was written back during the trial last summer, the legal parallel would have been right there on her mind. Am I close?"

House sighed and finally, to Jensen's relief, sat down on the edge of the bed, though with a good space between them. "She made that her last wish. How are you going to compete as a mere shrink with a mother's last wish? Mom is telling me to do this."

"But she did _not_ tell you to read them. She wanted you to talk to him. Actually, she probably wanted you to _listen_ to him."

"In a court, the evidence matters more than the witnesses. The witnesses can lie."

"You think that evidence can't lie? In fact, I'm sure what she was trying to tell you was that all those letters _did_ lie. Unintentionally, but it was a lie. But human testimony has tremendous value in court, even today. We interpret things as people, not just hard data. That's why you are such a good doctor, in fact. If it weren't for the interpretation, the creativity, the way you interact with the cases, if it were only hard, cold figures in a lab, then anybody else could do it, too. Or a computer could. If you replaced yourself at the hospital with a computer, even a highly advanced one programmed to the teeth with medical knowledge, do you really think the success rate would stay the same? You even cross-examine patients and families yourself on the tougher cases. Reading their reactions is often the key that gives you a break on the case. Yes, they can lie, but interpreting them still has a lot of value and can tell you a lot more than just a lab printout. When the chips are down, you go talk to the people."

House still looked stubborn. Jensen continued after a moment. "Back in September when you first found out about these letters, you decided that asking for all of them would be too much for you. Remember reading just _one_ of them, the impact of that? You made the right decision there. But tell me, why is this a good idea now, under more stress already from a family death, when it was a bad idea in September with no personal crisis going on?"

"He's getting too close. To the girls, and to Lisa." And to you, Jensen added silently. "I need to know now what those letters said."

"But didn't your mother _tell_ you what they said in her final letter?"

"That was just a summary."

"Has he ever tried to tell you what they said? Given you a summary? Made his defense, as she put it?"

That caught House's attention, the emotional whirlwind retreating a little as he seized the puzzle. "No. He told me how many there were, but that was a direct question from me."

"In fact, he didn't offer to send them then, did he?"

"No. Just answered my question and then dropped it."

"Why didn't he want to send them, Dr. House? Two possible reasons."

"They gave a lot more clues than she thinks, and any moron should have seen it."

"That's one of the possible reasons. And the other one is?" House sat mute, determined not to give it, even though they were on the same page. "He was concerned about your reaction. He thought dumping that much of the past on you would be too much at once. Even if it exonerated him, he was more concerned with you than with making his defense."

"He _did_ send the one, though."

"Think back to that week. Your communication to date with him had been just brief challenges you sent by email. He really hadn't talked much with you. But that Tuesday, you got the CD and picture and emailed him that they arrived, and he sent back a long message with details about the music. He also mailed the letter that day as proof of the music. Tuesday night, you had a nightmare filling in your half of the scene. The next morning, you sent him a note telling him _he_ had given you a nightmare by his reply to your email. He had to be worrying that whole next day about that letter in the mail, hoping it wouldn't do the same, wishing he could call it back. That had to be why he has never again sent you another one, even singly. You said yourself that that letter must have been one of the best of them, being just about the piano. He's been concerned about you. Not just about himself - if he were only concerned about himself, about making his point, you would already _have_ his defense, as your mother called it. You would have had it by express mail, the whole lot of them, sent the minute he got back home after the trial."

"Unless they really _do_ say more than that, and he _should_ have known," House insisted.

"If they are a bad defense, as you put it, he would have put up far more argument than he just did about going to get them. He would do _anything_ to keep you from seeing them if they convict him. He could have stood on their status as private letters, not even ones to you. Pointed out how hard it would be to get a plane ticket last minute. He also could have lied, said a pipe burst and they were ruined in the water or something. But there would have been _far_ more of a production before just yielding and turning to go. If he's just concerned about you, on the other hand, his reaction now makes perfect sense. He still thinks they are too much at once, but he knows that to turn down that direct request from you would burn the bridges and make you even madder. Stalling about it would do the same thing. You had him trapped, precisely because he loves you, and that is his only motive in all this." And no doubt, Thornton was hoping they would talk to his son in the meantime. Jensen remembered that look of desperation as he had left.

House, predictably, jumped tracks, as he often did when something was getting too emotionally close. "You said there were other ways to do the same thing."

"Yes. What you are after is data. But hitting all of it at once is worse than useless, Dr. House. It's damaging. Take a computer, for instance. If it only has so much memory and processing capability, and you try to download a file a hundred times that, it fails. You don't even get the use of part of your file up until the limit was reached. Or, like I said a year ago, think of it like allergy shots. If Cathy got one of her allergy shots every minute throughout the day, just to get her _past_ her reaction once and for all rather than dragging things out, we'd send her into a medical crisis."

"We can't do reconditioning here," House protested. "I need to read those letters."

"There are three basic approaches to getting that data besides reading the whole batch right now. First is doing them one at a time. Think back to reading that one, how that affected you. Even going one at a time would be plenty. But if you want, we can work through this together in sessions to process what they contain."

House shook his head. "Like I said, he's getting too close. I'm running out of time. What are the other ways?"

"Second, talk to him, like your mother probably suggested. Ask him what's in the letters. Hear his defense straight from him."

"Hell, no. Forget that one."

"Okay, the third way. If it's data you want, immediate data, then look at the information besides the letters. There is plenty there already. Why did Thornton arrange your mother's funeral, for instance? Why has he played along with your limits on the girls?"

"He's _pushing_ that," House growled.

"No, _they_ are pushing that. They are interested and getting closer. He's letting them take the lead. But again, if all he wanted was some cure for loneliness, instant grandkids, if he really was worried about the content of those letters from _his_ point of view, that they might not be a good defense, he would have been pushing it with the girls far more for the last several months. He'd want to get in as fast as he could, so that when the house of cards fell and his weak defense was exposed, he would already be so close to them that you would have trouble kicking him out. He would have, for one thing, called your mother to interrogate her. Do you realize how _easily_ he could have gotten information that way?"

"I told her not to talk to him," House reminded him.

"Even so, I think he still could have gotten it out of her. But the fact remains, he _did not try_, Dr. House. She was by far the weakest link in the information chain. He was a _professional_ at finding those. He has respected your limits every step of the way since last summer, starting from when you asked him to go sit in the other room in court. If all he wanted was a cure for loneliness, he's taking an awfully slow route there when we know how much more he's capable of. That is data, Dr. House. Even a trial rarely has just one exhibit of evidence. You're looking at the letters like they are all there is, but you have so much more to work with. Behavior is itself evidence."

House was hitting the limit, Jensen could tell, physically and mentally. "Think about it, Dr. House. He can't possibly be back until tomorrow morning with the letters. Think about this tonight."

House shook his head. "I need to read those letters," he insisted, the stubbornness increasing with exhaustion. "I've got to decide soon about him, like I said."

Jensen took his second to last argument for the moment. He wasn't expecting this next point to have any positive result at the moment, just hoped House would think it over in between now and opening the file of letters. "Two more things, Dr. House, and then I'm done for now." House looked skeptical. "Really. Two more points, and that's it. First, data is never going to be enough here. There will never be a time where data alone balances out what John did on the scales, and you can decide it's equal now. In the end, you will never be able to make this decision about Thornton on data, no matter how much you have. You're going to _have_ to make it on trust."

As he'd expected, House didn't like that point at all. Jensen left it, hoping it was fertilized and would grow quickly, and went on. "However, second point. If what you are after is data, as much as you can get, you're ignoring a huge amount here. And I'm not talking about Thornton's behavior now; there is other data that you simply refuse to see. With a patient, if you start ignoring certain symptoms instead of looking at all of them, it can lead you astray."

House practically snarled at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dr. Cuddy and the girls." House hit his feet. Fortunately, it took him a while, and Jensen landed the remaining few sentences before he could escape. "_Watch_ them, Dr. House. Watch them tonight; again, you won't delay the letters at all by doing this. Try to convince them things are fine with you. Then take what you see tonight and multiply it 128 times. _That_ is what you, and your wife, and your girls are heading for on this course."

House, having achieved his feet, glared at the psychiatrist. "I need to know," he repeated, "and you aren't going to stop me."

"I know that. Just watch them tonight. See the data." Jensen stood up himself. "That's all I'm going to say on it unless you want more."

"Fat chance of that happening." House looked at him, suddenly suspicious. "I'll bet you can't help another lecture squeezed in somewhere before he gets back."

"What would you bet?" Jensen replied pleasantly. "I mean it. This was our only session on this until you decide what to do with the letters. You can make up your own mind, and you will anyway. But if you want to talk more about it, I'm here."

Jensen left his patient standing there, stepped past him, and opened the bedroom door. Cuddy was right at the end of the hall, looking so wound up she was about to break, and Wilson, hovering behind her, didn't look any more relaxed. "Later," Jensen mouthed silently as House started to limp out stiffly behind him, and Cuddy reluctantly nodded once. Dumping a wifely session on him right now without at least something of a break would be overload itself, although nowhere close to the impact of 128 letters.

Instead of speaking, Cuddy just came forward, embracing her husband tightly, and Jensen touched Wilson on the arm and moved away. The oncologist slowly followed him, giving the other two some space. "Did he change his mind?" Wilson whispered urgently.

Jensen only gave him that annoying confidential reminder look and picked up a picture at random out of a box, studying it, then putting it down as House and Cuddy exited the hall. "Let's go check on the girls," Jensen suggested. "Do you want me to go get them?"

House ignored him and limped resolutely into the kitchen, keeping his eyes firmly averted from the table, heading straight for the sliding glass door into the back yard. Cuddy collected coats and followed him quickly. Rachel was walking quiet circles instead of her usual run, and Marina, sitting in a patio chair, was holding Abby; both girls looked up as soon as their father came out. "Daddy!" Rachel charged over, and Abby nearly fell off Marina's lap, trying to get down even faster than the nanny was putting her down. As soon as she could, she bolted to him, too. House bent over to them.

"It's okay, girls. Everything's fine." Four little eyes were fixed on him, and he tried as hard as he could to convince himself they looked reassured. "Let's go back in, okay? Time to eat before long. What about another pizza?"

Slowly, the family went back inside.


	47. Chapter 47

A/N: Short update, but the next one is longer, with Thomas' night, and then the one after that is where House and Cuddy talk. "Winning the retirement lottery" is a phrase I've heard used several times by my brother the colonel, who has achieved that by now as soon as he feels like switching careers. At the moment, he's at 22 years in and still enjoying the military. But it really is a sweet deal (fully deserved, of course).

(H/C)

Getting the girls to bed that night was a war. The adults finally won but not until long after usual, when toddler exhaustion finally overcame toddler stubbornness. The evening before that had been unsettled, too, and not even the day's second pizza meal had been a distraction for long. The girls were totally zeroed in on their father, although Rachel did ask a few times when Thomas would be back.

Finally the girls were out. As Cuddy and House dragged themselves into the main room of the hotel suite and turned for their own bedroom in mutual unspoken decision, Marina briefly followed them back out of the girls' room, closing the door carefully behind her, and seized House by the elbow. "I hope you realize what you're costing that man tonight," she hissed, eyes flashing. "Not to mention the rest of us." Turning on her heel without waiting for a reply, she went back to the girls, and Cuddy had to give the nanny credit. She had never before seen a door slammed softly, all of the emphasis but none of the volume.

House had only paused for a moment as Marina hurled that verbal dart, but he didn't turn to face her, and he now resumed his tired limp toward the other bedroom. His leg was almost dragging, like it was too much effort for the mutilated muscles to pick it up at all, and as much as Cuddy wanted to shake him at the moment until his head rattled, her first stop once they were in their own room was to turn on the hot tub.

He looked at her in surprise. "No lecture? Or are you trying to relax me for a sneak attack first? Surely you have to get your vote in, too, whether I want to hear it or not." His tone was sharp, and what might at other times have had joking undertones to it was pure defiance tonight.

She forced herself not to snap back at him. If she got started at the moment, she was afraid she'd say things she'd regret. Her last nerve had surrendered to today about an hour ago watching the girls. "You just got one from Marina, short but with a lot in it. I'll at least wait long enough to be original." She tested the temperature of the water and walked over to gather sleep clothes for both of them.

His eyes followed her, suspicious, waiting. She simply kept preparing for the soak, and he was the one who broke the silence ten minutes later once they were in the tub. "About what I'm costing him, you're chewing over that, too. Forget it. He told me himself earlier today that he doesn't have any money problems."

She stared at him. "You think I'm worried about the _money_? That's not what I was thinking of. Not what Marina meant, either."

"You can't tell me you haven't had the thought cross your mind since he left. You live and breathe the hospital budget, Lisa. Tell me the cost of last-minute tickets hasn't occurred to you at least once tonight." She looked away, and he pushed on, scoring the point. "I thought so. He said he was drawing two retirements, plus Social Security, and one of those retirements would be career military. That's winning the retirement lottery. He's drawing half his final pay for life, and he has been since the 1970s. You don't have to worry about it."

"That doesn't mean you have to find ways to waste it for him. And okay, I _did_ think about the cost of tickets a few times, but that's still not the biggest part of it. You're costing him a lot more than dollars, Greg." She sighed. "I don't want to talk about this tonight."

"You don't?" She saw the concern kick in as he realized she was truly serious. "Are you feeling okay?"

"No, but neither are you. We're both too tired to get into this. We need some sleep right now more than anything, I think." They were both running way past empty. She was afraid to talk to him about this insanity tonight. "Let's wait until the morning to discuss it, okay? Please, Greg."

He shrugged. "Wait until next new year if we like. It's my decision." He was still watching her, though. She had noticed how intensely he was watching her and the girls tonight and hoped that Jensen's session was beginning to soak in, even if slowly.

She closed her eyes, leaning back against the tub, retreating but without closing the subject. "Let's just leave it alone for tonight," she repeated. But Thomas couldn't leave it alone for tonight. Alongside the acute anxiety for her husband was the worry for him. How could someone become so incredibly dear to her on really just a couple of days' direct acquaintance?

To her relief, House accepted the postponement of the lecture (_discussion_, she corrected herself mentally. _Not lecture, discussion. I hope_). But once they had soaked out at least the physical aches, given up on the others, and were preparing for bed, he spoke up again. "You need to take an Ativan tonight." He was sorting out his nighttime meds as he spoke, and she saw him hesitate at the sleeping pill, then add the full dose, though his look of distaste was eloquent. But the worried glance at her as he decided to take it also spoke volumes. "You're right, Lisa; we do need some sleep. We're not reacting straight to things right now. A good night's rest will help."

She got a pill out and took it, resisting the urge again to shake him. They _did_ both need sleep, but he was wondering now if tiredness itself was all that was wearing her and the girls down, not his own turmoil. "Okay, Greg." They took pills together, and she nearly choked over her water at his next comment.

"And you need to read the will. That way, you can stop worrying about that. I'm sure Mom left me everything, but you won't be convinced until you see it in writing."

"I'm _not_ worried about the will, Greg." Well, it had a position in line, but that spot was nowhere near the top.

"So why not read it? Nice bedtime reading. It looked like only a few pages." He slowly lifted his leg into bed. "Come on, Lisa. Let's get it over with."

Retrieving it took less energy than arguing with him. She was exhausted herself, and that soak in spite of everything was making her sleepy. By the time she found her purse where she'd left it in the main room and came back into the bedroom, he was already looking very sleepy, obviously at the limit himself. Those sleeping pills really worked on him, but mental and emotional exhaustion was supplementing it tonight. He was stubbornly fighting it, though, wanting to hear. "Get it over with," he insisted.

She climbed into bed and held up the will. "Okay. Last Will and Testament," she started, reading it aloud. "I, Blythe House, being of sound mind." She stopped there for a sigh and deleted five editorial comments unspoken. "Do hearby make this my last will and testament, revoking any and all previous such instruments." She was interrupted by a soft snore and looked down at her husband. He was out. She watched him for a minute, anxiety gnawing at her even though the Ativan did help, and then she finally returned to the will, reading faster now to herself. She was named executor, Blythe probably trying to spare her son the task, but doing it long distance from Princeton would be a chore.

Ah, here was where it got down to the most important question. "Leave all of my worldly possessions to my son, Gregory House." Cuddy's exhale of relief caught halfway as her eyes jumped to the next word. "Except. . ." Going on, she could almost see Blythe in the room speaking, could almost hear her voice. The house was okay, but Blythe had 21 various bequests of things in it, obviously donating anything that had been admired to the new friend who had admired it or shared that interest. The little desk in the kitchen was not included in the exemptions (Cuddy actually thought it was younger than this will), nor was the piano, nor the pictures. But there were various other pieces of furniture and wall art. Patsy got the living room couch. Some couple named Bob and Madeline Gideon got that hated kitchen table. A Melanie inherited the mysteries, as well as the bookcase itself. Another was down for the romances. Two different people would receive the kitchen silverware, one for each main pattern.

Cuddy read through the list, imagining overseeing all of this from several states away, and annoyance and memory chased each other in turn through her head. How perfectly Blythe, to bequeath to Cuddy a logistical mess of endless, silly details. On the other hand, this final picture of the stifled woman, free at least from John and almost giddy in her new friends and circles, wanting to give them each something in return for their friendship, was pathetic. Cuddy finished the will and set it aside. That would be a headache but a future one. They needed to deal with the present migraine of circumstances first.

With another check on her husband, she retrieved her cell phone and tried calling Thomas. No reply. He was probably in the air. She looked up the airport and called them to ask. That led to some chasing around a thinner night crew in the different sections, but she ultimately learned that a flight for St. Louis had taken off about twenty minutes earlier. It was the last for the evening. The soonest flight back from St. Louis to Lexington in the morning would be the first morning shuttle, landing at 6:52 a.m., and they thought there were still a few seats available, but she would have to ask St. Louis. She thanked them and hung up.

Poor Thomas. He had been tired already today after his foot throbbing had interfered with sleeping last night, and he was bound to get less sleep than any of them. She called his cell phone again, leaving a message this time. He deserved a status update, at least, even if there was nothing really to report. "Thomas, it's Lisa. Give me a call when you get a chance." She hit end and looked at her husband again, then leaned across him to switch out the light on his side. She brushed her lips against his temple as she returned to her own side. "You idiot," she said, the love and the anxiety churning together.

Finally, feeling guilty at her ability to, she turned off her own light and settled into bed, making sure the cell phone was close at hand so she would hear it. Exhaustion reluctantly gave way to worried dreams about endless wills in which she could never possibly fulfill all of her responsibilities, yet for some reason she was required to complete them and file the final report before seeing her family again.


	48. Chapter 48

A/N: I have given Thomas my own "someday" car. The reason I want one, though, much like the reason he's glad to see his tonight, has zero to do with status, appearances, or any kind of public "statement." I once took a carpooled trip of several hours in one, and it was the only car I've ridden in over the decades since messing up my knee in sixth grade which did not make my knee ramp up the ache some through transmitted engine vibration and road motion. I actually asked the model, the only time in my life I've ever done that, and the owner, possessor of a bad back, agreed with me. With a ride like that, I'd want one even if it looked hideous.

It does set up a fun exchange between Thomas and House eventually, though. :) Better times are coming, but we have to get through the valley first.

Send reviews, folks. This weekend was a rough one (although nobody and nothing else I know has died).

(H/C)

It was raining when Thomas Thornton landed in St. Louis, a cold spitting rain that couldn't decide whether it wanted to freeze or not. How perfectly appropriate, he thought. He had managed to get a ticket on the final flight of the evening, but first class was sold out, and he had to go into the economy seats, something he hated. He was too tall to fit comfortably. He'd spent the whole flight, like he had spent the evening at the airport, torn between anger at Blythe, anger at John, and anger at himself. What had she said in that letter? Whatever it was, Thomas had been trapped from the moment of Greg's request. Putting up any argument would just focus all of Greg's fear and anger at the situation and the past onto him personally. The fragile bridge they were constructing would not be able to take that.

But Thomas knew better than any of them that Greg could not handle reading all of those letters at one gulp. He had read them himself. At the time all those years ago, there truly had been nothing that seemed off about them, especially backed up with the foundation of the two years in which he had seen every day how John adored his son, how much he anticipated his birth, how proud he was after Greg's arrival. Yes, they mentioned Greg being in trouble now and then, disagreements with John, that he was strong willed. But Tim had had his moments growing up, too. As for the rare visible injuries Thomas had noticed himself a few times on his intermittent visits, when he had asked, those were excused by clumsiness by Greg as well as his parents. But again, Tim and also Thomas himself had grown in awkward phases and had occasionally hurt themselves. Thomas hadn't really found his full physical coordination until his late teens. He had read the letters, accepted the fiction, and never guessed at the hideous truth beneath.

But reading the letters in full hindsight since the trial had been a different story. Trying to fill in gaps was enough to give Thomas himself nightmares. Greg, with the full back story to plug in and with the first-hand memories of it, would be hit far harder. It would be too much for him emotionally. Thomas could only hope that Lisa and Jensen and the others could reach through the stubbornness and that Greg would be a little easier to deal with and more ready to listen once he himself was off the scene.

By the time he landed, Thomas was tied into knots inside and out, felt like an accordion, and his foot was absolutely throbbing. With nobody around who cared enough to worry about him, he didn't bother trying to hide the limp now as he walked through the rain to pick up his own car in long-term parking where he'd left it last Thursday morning. He unlocked it and settled into the seat with a sigh of relief, stretching his long legs out and leaning his head back for a minute, and he thought that airlines could take some lessons in seat construction here. He turned the key with a pathetic eagerness to have at least _one_ thing this evening run smoothly. The car didn't disappoint him.

Ember and the BMW were Thomas' two main toys. He and Emily had picked this one out together four years ago after their first one had hit fifteen years old. The cars had never been a rolling price tag to them, an advertisement to the world; they simply loved the pleasure of driving in them together. This second one hadn't seen nearly the high mileage of the first one, though, as the long road trips they had both loved taking in their retirement quickly distilled down to doctor's appointments during her illness. This one, still very low miles and in excellent shape, seemed to be in large part waiting for a future that wasn't realized yet. But Emily had loved it, had gotten some brief pleasure out of it at times during her decline, even if the long trips weren't possible anymore, and that made it even more special to him.

Thomas switched on the heater to thaw himself a little and pulled out his cell phone, hoping that maybe something had changed. He would be glad to get back out of the car this minute, turn around, and walk straight back into the airport to try to find a faster return, even if in multiple stages. One message, and he cued it up eagerly while at the same time steeling himself against disappointment. If Greg were going to listen easily to reason tonight, the call would have come much earlier, before Thomas had even made it off the ground in Lexington.

"Thomas, it's Lisa. Give me a call when you can."

Her tone gave the message already. Nothing had changed. But she was thinking of him, wanted to talk to him even without something to report, and that knowledge warmed him up even faster than the car's impressive heating system.

They had always wanted a daughter. Emily had had complications with Tim's birth, and there had never been another child, but in the conversations during her pregnancy, the delicious anticipation together, they had always talked of multiple children and hoped in particular that there would be at least one daughter. Thomas had almost been able to see her in his mind, dark haired like Emily, with the same quiet fire in her soul that could flare out at times when needed and surprise people. People had tended to dismiss Emily in life on first meeting; she was far stronger-minded than she appeared. She just saw no reason to show it most of the time, only digging in on things that truly mattered. On anything except a point of principle, she would compromise to get along, and she had been such an incredible listener that friends would be drawn to her, would grow close to her, and then one day would happen to run up against something that mattered to her and would be stunned at the sudden metamorphosis of someone they had been sure they knew already.

Lisa, the last few days, had been a joy to get to know, an unexpected bonus in this quest to win his son. Just hearing her voice now, even if it clearly had no good news to share, was a lift in this dark night. He started to call back and then, selfishly, put it off a little so he wouldn't have to enter the big house alone. Putting the car into gear, he pulled out of the airport lot and headed for home. The rain was still falling, still trying to make up its mind whether to be sleet or not.

The restless city was still alive around him, but by the time he got out to his own quiet street in the suburbs, the traffic had thinned, and there was only the darkness and the rain. Even his house seemed asleep. He hit the garage door opener and then called Lisa back as he pulled into the driveway. It took her several rings to respond, and her voice was slightly thick as she answered. "Thomas?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

Like much of the population, she sounded guilty to have been caught sleeping. "That's okay. I'm glad you did. You wouldn't believe what I was dreaming about. Are you all right?"

He climbed out of the car and headed for the door into the house. "I'm fine. I'm back in St. Louis, just got home." He unlocked the door and entered, switching on the lights. "Greg hasn't reconsidered yet?"

"No. Jensen spent a long time talking to him, and he's been thinking all evening after that. You can see him doing it. But he hasn't changed his mind so far." She sighed. "He can get so stubborn sometimes. I haven't talked to him yet; we were both too tired. I'll try in the morning. I'm so sorry, Thomas."

Tired, worried, and hurting, he let himself go just a little bit. "Greg isn't the one to blame for all this."

"Neither are you," she fired back immediately.

"Actually, right then, I was thinking of Blythe. I take a good share of it, yes, but she missed more than I did with a lot more opportunity. Then leaving him some letter probably trying to apologize in her awkward way for the whole past and just setting him off worse. Today seemed to be going so well up until then." He opened the refrigerator restlessly, surveyed the offerings, then closed it again and headed for his office, leaving the lights on behind him, something he'd only been doing since his return from Europe in an effort to make the house seem a little less empty. "Then there's John. I swear, Lisa, I never had any idea. I would have killed the bastard." He meant it literally, not just blowing off steam. Yes, he would have killed John and never felt a moment's regret over it.

"So would I," she agreed. "We all missed so much. There was one time Blythe and John were coming up to Princeton and wanted to get together for dinner, and Greg tried every trick he knew to back out. Wilson and I actually conspired to set it up behind his back, and I insisted that he see them. He looked me straight in the eye and told me he hated him. Just the way he said it, I knew that wasn't like anything I've ever heard from him before, not just being pigheaded. And I still didn't see. Are you all right?"

Thomas had just sat down in his desk chair and leaned over to a file cabinet, and she apparently had heard the slight hiss he gave as the angle put extra weight across his bruised toe. "I'm fine, Lisa."

"How's your foot?" she asked suspiciously.

"It's okay. It didn't like the trip much." He tried to stall her with a half admission. "But I got examined today by the best doctor in America, and he assured me it's just bruised, so you don't have to worry."

"He also told you to take it easy. Before he told you to head off on a last-minute plane trip after those letters."

"Remember what all he went through, Lisa. The foot is only bruised. I'll live." Bad choice of words, and he heard it in her tone, which sharpened up immediately.

"You haven't got any choice; you hear me? We have a lot of years left, all of us, and you're definitely not going to have something happen tonight, not right on top of his mother."

"I'm not going to die yet. I can be stubborn myself. Where do you think he got it from?" He was trying to get her to smile, to ease up the worry a little, and after a moment he heard the softening of her tone.

"You're right. He sure didn't get that from Blythe. Or a lot of other qualities, either. You two really are a lot alike."

Thomas couldn't help pushing in quickly with a disclaimer. "I was very careful in those visits when Greg was a kid. I was playing a role there, not showing any similarities that I knew about. John didn't get to see me like you all have the last few days, and he had only known me at work mainly during that assignment together. I didn't hang around their house a lot at that time after that one night, because I didn't want Blythe to give it away. Not that it made a bit of difference in the end, since he already knew about Greg all those years, but I _was_ always trying to be careful." Three, Greg had said. It started at three. Thomas, gone after his first birthday, hadn't returned for the first visit until Greg had just turned four. Whatever John's realization had been based on, it hadn't been clues from Thomas' presence in a visit. Maybe the physical similarities and facial structure, though that was elusive, not as strong as between Greg and his grandfather.

"Thomas?"

He jumped, coming back to the present. "I'm still here. Sorry, I must have zoned out for a minute."

"Greg does that, too." He heard the fondness in her voice and again was warmed by it. "I was just asking, how bad are those letters?"

He looked at the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, standing open now, with the cardboard box there. 128 letters, neatly filed by date. "At the time, there wasn't anything that made me wonder. Filling in the blanks in retrospect, they're awful. He _cannot_ deal with this, not all at once. But there was nothing else I could do once he asked."

"I know. I'll try to talk to him in the morning." Her voice shifted a little as she apparently looked at her watch or the clock. "Speaking of which, you need to get what sleep you can. I'm sure you've got to be back at the airport early."

"Yes. I'll be landing at 6:47, Lexington time." 5:47, St. Louis time, and taking off well before that, of course. He looked at his own watch. Four hours in bed would be pushing it to the limit, what with security and getting to the airport. He felt exhausted but also nowhere close to sleepy. Just battered.

"Try to get some sleep before then. I'll do my best with Greg in the morning. He _is_ thinking about this. He trusts Jensen a lot by now, and Jensen really had a lot to say to him, judging from time."

_But he doesn't trust me. Not yet._ Thomas couldn't blame his son, though. He hadn't done much to earn it. Recent efforts were still outweighed by childhood errors, which made perfect sense. Thinking of children, he couldn't help asking. "Did the girls ask where I went?"

"Yes, they did, both of them, Rachel a few times. We told them you'd be back. They're worried tonight, too, watching Greg." She sighed again. "I'm going to let you go now, but go to bed, Thomas. Don't stay up chewing on this. You were already tired anyway."

"I will," he promised. "I'll see you in the morning, Lisa." He didn't wish her good night, thinking her chances of that were about equivalent to his.

She clearly shared the sentiment. "See you then. Bye, Thomas. Take care."

She hung up, and he sat there for a few more minutes, looking at that box. In the top drawer of the file cabinet, with records and such, his own will resided, filed neatly under W. He had revised his will last summer upon returning from Princeton. Prior to that, it had still left everything to Emily, and if anything had happened to him in his year-long journey around Europe to get his head on straight, the legal consequences would have been a headache. She had had no direct family left, either. But after the trial, Thomas had gone to his lawyer and revised the document, which now was equally straightforward with only a change of name. Without stating relationship, he left everything aside from Ember "to Dr. Gregory House of Princeton, New Jersey, in tribute to his brave stand against child abuse." The mare alone went to a friend at the stable.

But he really had no intentions of that will being needed yet. Too many unfinished ends to his life. He had to do a better job than this before he checked out. He stood up with a wince and picked up the box of letters. Resisting the urge to drive out to the stables in the middle of the night and talk to Ember (how pathetic could he get?), he left the office and put the box on the kitchen counter near the garage door.

Debating between taking a shower tonight and one in four hours, he chose the latter to possibly help him wake up, assuming he got to sleep at all, and he slowly turned out the downstairs lights and headed for the staircase. Upstairs, he went into their bedroom. He could never think of it as just his, not even now. Here they had lived and loved and slept together for decades. Here she had died. Blythe had changed out of John's bedroom, but Thomas hadn't left his and Emily's. His memories of her were too precious.

Tonight, though, he missed her even more. They had had a rule that if something was truly bothering one of them, they couldn't go to sleep until they had at least talked a little, laying the issue out. Not that everything could be solved in one night, whether between them or involving others, but they never went to sleep until they honestly could together with no invisible wall in the bed between them. It had resulted in a few sleepless nights along the way during arguments and such, but it had also set a lifelong habit that was hard to break. He undressed, climbed into bed, and set the clock, then lay there alone, wishing he could have her advice just one more time. He closed his eyes. "Emily," he said softly, but he couldn't tell her good night. Not tonight. "Emily," he repeated after a minute, "if you have any pull at all up there, put in a good word for me, okay?" Sleep was a long time coming, but when it did claim him, he dreamed of talking to her.


	49. Chapter 49

House woke up reluctantly, already resisting the day without knowing why. Before his mind even remembered where he was, there was a vague sense of dread hovering over him, and he knew that whatever today held, he wasn't looking forward to it.

Right alongside that undefined sense of foreboding came the first morning pain assessment, as much an established part of his matutinal routine as brushing his teeth and one that came far earlier in each day's agenda. This morning, the deep ache in his thigh already was somewhat increased over baseline, either due to weather or tension or just the moods of the damned thing, even as he lay carefully still, and he could sense the teeth just waiting to bite in if he moved abruptly. Nope, definitely not going to be a good day.

He also began scouting for Cuddy. Sometimes that preceded the pain rating as he woke up, sometimes on harder days came along with it, but the thought of her was never delayed too long past his brain first coming online. Of course, usually she got up ahead of him at her typical insane hour to do yoga, but he could still hear or, if not hear, sense her nearby, and it was always comforting to rediscover her in his life every morning and track where she was in her routine. Today, he didn't have far to check, as she was still in bed next to him, her breathing deep and even.

The feeling that something was wrong accelerated sharply, and he opened his eyes. She was sound asleep, but her face looked weary. It was only after checking on her that he registered the bedroom around them. They weren't at home.

No, they were in Lexington.

And his mother was dead.

And he had to read those letters and decide what the hell he was going to do.

Undefined foreboding fled in the face of even more alarming facts. He was tempted to close his eyes and try to ignore the dilemma a little longer, but he knew he would never recapture sleep. Already his mind, now having reoriented itself to the current differential, had taken off at a dead gallop, dragging him along unwillingly in its wake. The sharp-toothed monster of the pain gave a low, eager growl and moved in a bit closer.

Cuddy looked tense even in sleep. He wondered what that will had said; her starting to read the will was his last hazy memory from the previous night. Or she could just be worrying about Thornton and the last-minute trip again, fretting over his foot. It was a bad bruise, but House was positive it wasn't broken, and all the pulses had been strong. No, the man would probably be tired and achy from the last minute trip back, but he'd be all right, if a few dollars poorer, and he could catch some sleep on the planes, too.

No matter what else House tried to convince himself of, he kept coming back to the root of her tension as himself. She and the girls both had been on edge the whole evening last night, although he had tried to believe his daughters were picking up on Cuddy, not reading him themselves. But she unquestionably thought he shouldn't read the letters.

Jensen definitely thought he shouldn't read the letters. No interpretation required there; the psychiatrist had said so.

He tried desperately to stuff back down the fact that the thought scared him, too. He remembered reading just the one letter, and the impact of that had been sharp. But 128 letters, spanning decades and the great majority of them from his childhood. All those years, all the memories, all the misunderstandings, everything his mother had missed along with the rest of them. It was all right there waiting to be relived. The idea of diving back into his childhood to that extent in one plunge scared the hell out of him.

But the letters were there, and he had to know. Making his decision without all of that data would be like picking only half of a patient's chart and tests while ignoring the other half and still trying to arrive at an accurate diagnosis. He _needed_ to know what Thornton could have known, how much he could have worked out.

Damn the man. If he hadn't sent that one . . .

If he hadn't sent that one, then that goodbye letter yesterday would have been entirely new information to House, and he would have immediately challenged why, in six months of tentative conversation, Thornton had hidden the fact that there were letters at all.

But he hadn't hidden that fact. What did that mean? That he wasn't afraid of them convicting him? Or had he been even more Machiavellian than that, picking out just the one and deliberately trying to scare his son with the impact, covering all bases, so that if Blythe ever mentioned them, he was safe, having mentioned them already himself but also having ensured that House would never want the lot? After all, the man had worked in intelligence. He was a professional at playing a deceptive role. Nothing about him could be taken at face value.

Or could it?

House needed to know. There wasn't time to do it gradually; he had to make this decision soon for the sake of his family, and he couldn't ignore the information in the letters, the one real-time record that still existed from his childhood. Thornton was getting too close to the girls and also to Cuddy. If he wasn't to be allowed into their lives, that veto had to come swiftly, and the decision had to be made right now.

_If he wasn't to be allowed into their lives ..._ The impact of that thought, not about the girls, whom it was his duty to protect, but about Cuddy, suddenly hit House with the force of a hammer to the chest. He thought of his mother, stifled all those years, John limiting her access to the world, restricting her friendships, keeping her in the box. Cuddy was an adult, and while the girls were a different story, Cuddy could make her own decisions about whom she chose to have relationships with. House didn't like the thought of her and Thornton growing close before he had even decided about the man for himself, but what the hell did he think he had the right to tell her? "I absolutely forbid you to talk to him." He even heard it mentally in his stepfather's voice, and come to think of it, he himself had said pretty much that back last summer to his mother, starting this whole farewell letter business in the first place. At that time, even if she had written the letter, Blythe had fallen meekly into line as ordered, because that was her familiar role, because she was used to it. Because she had lived there for years. House felt his stomach twist into a double knot. While worrying about his biological father, was he actually turning into John House?

And the sharp-toothed monster eagerly leaped to the attack.

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up abruptly in the cold certainty that something was wrong. Shooting up off the bed, ready for the call to duty from whatever quarter, she opened her eyes and looked first to her husband. She didn't have to look any farther. He was nearly doubled over, both hands clawing at his leg, sweat standing out across his forehead. Not a sound escaped him. "Greg!" She ran around the bed to his side, grabbing the meds bag along the way. Her hands closed alongside his on his thigh first; the entire limb was rigid. She let go and opened the bag. This spasm was beyond simply a massage for relief.

"No! I don't . . ." The desperation in his eyes, equally as strong as the pain, implored her.

She paused in the middle of getting out a syringe. "Greg, you need this."

"Got . . . to think. . . today," he panted.

She sighed. "What about just diazepam, okay? Not morphine. It will help the spasm, but it doesn't hit you nearly as much mentally." A brief differential, even from the middle of agony, and then he gave a tight nod. She fixed a shot, administered it, and then reached for his thigh again. He let go, yielding to her, and she worked on the spasm with her own teeth clenched, waiting right along with him for relief. It took a while, but slowly, the muscles released. She kept massaging his leg, more gently now, and looked at his face. His eyes were closed. "Better?" she asked.

He nodded, clearly trying not to move even his head much. The weather forecast hadn't been too bad for January, if she was remembering it right from yesterday morning. The culprit here was probably just his tension level, which was through the roof. "What about a hot soak, too?" she suggested. He nodded again, eyes still closed, and she let go long enough to head into the bathroom to switch the tub on, then returned and resumed her massage. He opened his eyes after a minute, studying her, and she could see the wheels spinning.

"You didn't make me," he said finally.

"It's your choice, Greg. If you don't want the morphine, as long as you're still able to express that opinion, I'll leave it up to you. I know you hate the stuff."

"But you thought I needed it."

Her hands paused briefly. "I did think you needed a little, yes. Not a knock-out dose, but it would have helped you faster. But it's still your choice. Greg, what are we talking about here?" She hated feeling like she was lagging somewhere a few zip codes behind him in a conversation.

"If I . . ." He trailed off, and she waited, her hands moving again on his leg, chasing out remnants of cramp and pain. "If I told you I'd decided I didn't want Thornton in our lives anymore, that I didn't want him to be around the girls at all, would you still talk to him?"

"Yes," she replied. "At this point, I would keep talking to him. I'd respect your wishes with the girls, but I would still be his friend myself. But I wouldn't try to hide that fact from you." He looked oddly reassured by that answer, even while the thought annoyed him. She leaned over to give him a kiss, then let go of his leg and stood up. "I'll go check the tub again. It should be full soon." She collected clothes for both of them, then walked away, leaving him the privacy he always wanted to get out of bed, although this morning, her ears were turned up on high.

Following the sound of his progress out of bed was painful for her, and the hot tub was full and steaming well before he made it into the bathroom. He was walking tentatively, clearly just waiting for his leg to bite him again, and he sat down on the edge of the tub and eyed it for a moment, then silently reached out an arm. She was right there, and she took hold tightly, giving him a firm support point as he shifted laboriously over the side and settled down with a sigh into the water. She joined him but waited, wanting those pain lines to recede somewhat before she brought up the letters.

He spoke first. "Quiet night last night?" he asked.

"The girls wanted to see you once when they woke up. They came in, and we watched you breathing for a while."

"Wanted to see _me_? Not us?" She nodded, and he looked away. "You probably called _him_, too, soon as I was out."

"Yes, I did, just to make sure he was all right. He didn't answer, but he called me back later when he got to St. Louis."

"So he is getting those letters?"

"Yes. He'll be back this morning. His plane lands at 6:47." She couldn't stand putting it off any longer and dove in. "Greg, please, think about this."

He fired back immediately, tensing up even in the hot water. "I know. You think it's a bad idea, too. But I need to know how much they said, Lisa. I have to make this decision now."

"Why? Why today? I know the girls are getting curious, Greg, but we're leaving tomorrow afternoon, and he'll go back home for the moment, too. You can keep taking this slowly if you need to. _Nobody_ is pushing you here except yourself. Please, read them with Jensen one at a time or something over the next several months."

He was still watching her with that intensity from last night, even as he stayed stubborn. "Lisa, that's a live report as it happened. Written records, like in a newspaper. It will tell me things that he couldn't. I can't just ignore all that data."

"It's about as accurate as a newspaper, too," she countered.

"Even so, it's . . ." He stopped in mid sentence. "How would you know? You asked him last night what was in them, didn't you, maybe even had him read a few, just so you could get a summary yourself while I couldn't object?"

"No." That denial was rock solid, and she waited a moment, suddenly wanting him to believe her, even without additional clarification. He did. Once she was sure of it, she went on. "I asked him how bad they were. I was asking about cumulative effect, not about content, because I was worried about you. I'm _assuming_ the content, based on Blythe. I don't need to read one to know what they said. Knowing her was enough."

"What did he say?" he asked, softer now.

"He said at the time, one by one, there was nothing he questioned, but in hindsight as a group, they're awful. That was his own word for it. Greg, please, don't do this to yourself, or to us. I'm scared for you. So is Thomas. You can go slowly on it."

"He could just be scared for himself," he suggested.

"No, he's scared for you. And I'm definitely scared for you." She slid closer to him in the water, pulling him against her, realizing that her hands were trembling even in the hot tub. "Please, Greg. The girls and I will be with you through it, whatever you decide, but don't throw it all at yourself like this. It's too much. It would be too much for _anybody._ Please think about what you're doing."

He was silent for a few minutes, although he didn't pull away from her touch. "You trust him," he said finally.

"Yes. By now, yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because of watching him, especially the last few days. The way he looks at you and the girls, but still respecting your limits. The similarities I see in the two of you. The way he cares about all of us. The way he admits his mistakes honestly from the past. Him setting up the funeral. What he did last night for you, even though it's costing him - and I'm not talking about money, damn it. He doesn't have any ulterior motives here. You've mentioned sides a few times, Greg. This isn't about sides, but if it were, it still wouldn't make any difference, because there's only one. Thomas is on your side, too. But he's also willing to wait until you can see that."

He flinched. "I asked him for help, and he laughed at me."

"Greg, that was decades ago, and he didn't know. I can't imagine what your childhood was like; I'm not diminishing that. But Thomas didn't realize what you were asking. He'd do anything to change it, but he realizes he can't. We can't change the past. All we can do is go forward."

"Now you're sounding like a sappy chick flick again," he protested.

"So what?" She felt his arm tighten around her. "Just think about it. I can't tell you what to do, but I think this is a mistake, and it's going to hurt all of us, you most of all. I'm sure of that, Greg."

He looked thoughtful, if still stubborn. She knew it was time to leave the subject. "By the way, I read the will. You get the house."

"Told you so."

"You weren't totally right; she didn't actually leave everything to you." She waited long enough to get his curiosity firmly engaged. "She has 21 bequests of things in the house, from the furniture to the books to the silverware, even. I think she tried to give something to every new friend she had made."

"Not the piano?" he asked quickly. "I gave the piano to _him_ yesterday, not that he's going to be able to use it."

"No, not the piano. Nor the desk. Thank you for doing that for him, Greg. Thomas just wants it because it was yours." She hesitated, debating.

"What?" His attention sharpened up instantly. "Go ahead and say whatever you're thinking. With everything else we've talked about this morning already, it might as well join the pile."

"I was just thinking that. . . Greg, I realize you can't call Thomas your father. Not yet. Maybe never, and that's okay. I'm not pushing that on you. But you seem to try to avoid calling him _anything_. Thornton if you have to, but you do avoid even that, and you especially never call him anything to his face. Couldn't you at least call him Thomas?"

His eyes went distant, and he looked away. She waited. Finally, he spoke. "What do you think I called him all those years I was growing up?"

She straightened up as if hit with a jolt of electricity. That point hadn't occurred to her. "You mean the name itself reminds you. . ."

A tremor went through him, and she pulled him in closer. "I . . . it brings it back. How I felt then. And John, too, every time _he'd_ visit after that time I asked him to take us away, John would give me a _reminder_ beforehand, and he used his name all the time during those. So that's . . . that's what I associate with that name."

"I'm sorry," she said. The kiss steadied both of them. "I hadn't thought of that," she continued after a minute. "And I don't know why I hadn't. Of course that's what you called him back then."

"Stop feeling guilty," he demanded, kissing her again.

"Does it bother you when I call him that?" Not that she had any idea what the solution to that would be, as Thomas deserved to be addressed by his name.

He shook his head. "No, only . . . only me. It doesn't bother me hearing it from anybody else, just when I think it. Probably would from John, too, but he's in hell. I just . . . I can't call him that, Lisa."

"I understand, Greg. I'm sorry I asked." They came together again in the water, and slowly, she felt him start to relax as he realized that it was only sympathy, not pity. The kiss began heating up as they melted into each other.

That, of course, was when Marina knocked on the bedroom door. "Dr. Cuddy?" she called. "Are you awake?"

They broke apart laughing, and Cuddy shook her head. "Great timing," she muttered. "Just a minute, Marina," she called. Erupting from the hot tub, she seized a towel and quickly got dressed. House watched, obviously admiring her agility and coordination. "I'll deal with them, Greg. Take your time." She exited the bathroom, closing the door carefully behind her, leaving her husband sitting in the gently steaming water, looking thoughtful.


	50. Chapter 50

A/N: From this chapter on through the end of Wednesday, which is several chapters long, the characters basically divide into two teams, House/Jensen and Thomas/everybody else. I will keep both timelines running concurrently, but occasionally, the scenes do overlap a bit. Glad to be getting to this part. For me, the events of this Wednesday have always been the climax of this story. It is a lengthy day, so if your "what about this?" wondering isn't addressed right away, withhold judgment for a few chapters, and it might well work its way in in due time. Among other things, this day includes the most open discussion yet between Thomas and Cuddy about the girls, where we learn exactly what he has been told about them to date, including that he already knows Rachel is adopted. And House/Jensen have some wonderful moments; like I said, by the end of the story, I doubt people will think Jensen got short shrift in this one.

About a suggestion for House getting an amputation and a prosthesis, I doubt I'd go there, although the muse is in charge. There's certainly no indication of it in preplotting and idea glimmers, as far as I know, although the muse can always surprise me. With all the nerve damage he has, I don't think it would be such a magic cure for him physically, and he would also require a very high cut. I have always suspected that he would be quite likely to have significant issues with phantom pain after all these years. It is an interesting thought, though, and I find it much more realistic as a possible physical solution than the many "all he really needed was some committed physical therapy" plots in fanfic that I've read. I doubt Pranks will head there, but it might conceivably make an independent story someday, although again, I have no control over the muse. Anyway, thanks for chiming in with your thoughts.

Off we go into fic Wednesday, which contains all sorts of action, whether mentally, relationally, psychiatrically, or literally. Enjoy!

(H/C)

The girls were obviously wired today. By the time House finally made it out of the bathroom, Cuddy had her hands full, and their morning greeting for him was much more enthusiastic than usual. He and Cuddy played with them and listened to them for a few minutes, but when they headed out into the main room, an argument erupted almost immediately. Marina, after leaving the girls in their pajamas with their parents, had been selecting clothes for the day, but Abby didn't want to wear what the nanny had picked out, an uncharacteristic complaint from her. Then Rachel got set off telling her sister to shut up, and a contest with the phrase quickly developed. The required make-up hug only came after a few minutes and under extreme duress.

Finally, with peace relatively restored, Cuddy and Marina took the girls into their bedroom to get them dressed. House was slowly limping after - his leg felt better, but he was still on edge, waiting for the pain to ramp up again - when a light knock came on the door of the suite, soft but unmistakable. "Would you get that, Greg?" Cuddy asked, promptly shutting the bedroom door without even waiting for a reply. House stood there in stubborn defiance for a moment, but she had the girls, after all. Stalling would only involve their curiosity more in the package for him. Resigned, he limped to the door and opened it.

Thornton looked like hell. House was surprised; he had expected the old man to be physically tired after his night, but even the physical surpassed his prediction, and he had never expected this level of concern, even unmistakable fear. But had it been fear for himself, would Thornton have the box in his hands now rather than an excuse? After all, he had had the whole flight back to St. Louis to come up with a good one, a last-minute disaster, something like Jensen's broken pipe scenario. Yet here he stood, still in his coat, hadn't even stopped at his own room on the way up. Though obviously hating every second of it, he was here as deliveryman as promptly as he possibly could be.

Thomas in turn was surprised at his son's appearance. Greg reminded him of someone on a medieval torture rack, almost physically pulled in two directions at once, the tension painful. He was also standing more crooked this morning, not trusting his leg even as much as he normally did. Thomas had thought a few times during the flights that at least his son should be getting some needed rest, assuming that he was currently taking the sleeping pills that had been in that long recitation of medicines at the trial. But if he'd had a good night, he certainly didn't look it.

No one else was in sight at the moment. Thomas took a deep breath and offered the box he was holding. The conversation last night with Emily had been annoyingly brief before the alarm clock interrupted; though he preferred mental solutions to physical, he'd actually been tempted to electronic violence as he was rudely yanked into consciousness. But his wife had been in the middle of advising Thomas that he in turn should trust his son, that since there was no way he could turn down the request, all he could do was fulfill it as soon as possible and leave it to Greg to decide what to do with the letters. "Here they are," he said softly, and he choked back the words _be careful_, though his expression made them loud and clear anyway.

House took the box tentatively. So small a box to contain the past. He could even hold it tucked between his left hand and his body without upsetting his uncertain balance. "That's all of them?" he asked in surprise.

Thomas nodded, then qualified it belatedly. "That's all of the letters left. 128 of them. There were pictures occasionally included, and those are filed separately in an album. I didn't bring them."

House shook his head; he'd probably seen most of those pictures himself anyway while growing up. His prior lifelong distaste for family pictures arose from the fact that almost all he had seen in childhood (and Blythe had been a shutterbug) had been a blatant lie. "I don't care about the pictures." The other man relaxed slightly, and House realized that he'd imagined at some point in last night's journey having that also snatched away from him, even if it would require yet another return trip. The pictures mattered that much to him? On the other hand, he had kept the letters themselves for 50 years, even if he now hated them. The way he handled that box spoke clearly enough of his current opinion. But before the trial, when he hadn't known the truth, he had kept these letters for 50 _years_. He couldn't have expected this need to come up. Why keep them in the first place?

The two of them stood there, one outside, one in, eye to eye, and the awkward silence lengthened.

Cuddy interrupted the differential by opening the bedroom door. Rachel, clothed for the day now, spotted Thomas immediately and scampered across the room. "Thomas! Hi!" She hooked onto a leg, looking up at him. "You come back."

He smiled down at her. "Good morning, Rachel. Yes, I came back."

Cuddy wasn't too far behind her daughter, and her expression held open concern. "Come on in and sit down. Thomas, did you get _any_ sleep last night?"

"Yes," he replied with crisp Housian brevity. He dodged around his son, who still stood motionless just inside the door to the suite, and moved over to a chair, starting to take off his coat.

Abby, meanwhile, had noticed the box her father was holding. She trotted across to him and stretched up toward it. "What?" she asked.

House came to life as if a switch had been flipped. "It's . . .never mind. It's not something you'd be interested in."

Rachel joined the inspection. "A present from Thomas!" she announced. After all, she had been told that Thomas had to go get something at his house and would be back. Here were Thomas and something both newly arrived, so they must have come together.

"It is _not_ a present." House turned away, retreating to the bedroom, and tossed over his shoulder. "Why don't you ask him if he saw Ember?"

The distraction worked for Rachel, letting him escape, although Abby looked suspicious. "Did you see Ember?" Rachel asked.

Thomas, now sitting down, shook his head. "Ember was already asleep, and I didn't want to wake her up. That was a really fast trip, Rachel. I wasn't there long enough to go see Ember."

"She was in bed?" Rachel asked.

"No, horses don't sleep in beds. She was in her stall. She does have a blanket she sleeps in during the winter, but it's not like your blanket. Hers buckles around her, kind of like a coat, and it moves with her."

Rachel smiled. "Cool."

Cuddy meanwhile had moved over and was standing by the chair, studying Thomas and looking apologetic, guilty, and concerned all at once. He gave her a reassuring smile. "It's all right, Lisa." Only he wasn't convinced it was all right, nor was she.

"Greg?" she called. After a moment, her husband limped slowly, sans box, back out of their bedroom. "I was thinking a few minutes ago while the girls were getting dressed. Let's just order room service for breakfast instead of going down to the dining room." She was afraid of the fish-bowl atmosphere of the dining room this morning. Her husband was almost tense enough to snap, both girls were keying off him and already were on edge, and Thomas was exhausted as well as worried. Privacy was the better choice for this meal.

"Good idea," Marina approved, and after a moment, House nodded.

"What about Wilson and Jensen?"

"Could you call them?" He grumbled but pulled out his cell phone. Cuddy sat down on the couch at the end nearest Thomas' chair. "Are you all right?" she asked very softly.

"Fine," he replied, and the near-identical echo of House in phrase and in expression brought a lump to her throat. Unfortunately, she thought the accuracy of the assessment was another shared trait.

House ended the call and limped over, dropping into the couch next to Cuddy. Abby climbed onto his lap. "They're on the way up."

"Good. All right, what does everybody want for breakfast?" Cuddy asked.

"Pancakes!" Rachel suggested.

House flinched. This was Wednesday morning. Just a week ago, only last Wednesday, the family had been getting ready to go to breakfast at IHOP, and he had gone in to wake up his mother. Once again, the fatal silence of that room gripped him.

"Greg?" He looked up to meet five sets of worried eyes; even Marina was in on the act.

"Pancakes are fine," he agreed quickly, hoping the gap there had only been a few seconds, although he thought it probably was more. Abby was watching him with 2-year-old differential. Really, the kid could look _frightening_ at times in how hard she was thinking, trying to piece the world around her together. Concern was there too, though, and she reached out a hand to touch him.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he told her, and Thomas jumped slightly, obviously hearing the echo himself.

Jensen and Wilson arrived just as Cuddy was calling room service, and Marina let them in. Jensen was looking more like himself than at any point on the trip so far, House thought. Last night's session had at least been a shot in the arm for the psychiatrist, even if he hadn't convinced his patient. He was clearly concerned like the rest of them, but his worries were external today; he had won some sort of peace with himself. Wilson had his worried look on and kept glancing between House and Thornton, as well as a few irresistible looks around the big room for whatever might contain 128 letters.

The group settled around the cluster of seats. Conversation during breakfast was general, nobody speaking their mind in front of the girls, but House was by far the quietest of all. Those mental wheels were spinning at high speed, Cuddy thought, and he kept giving quick looks to his father and then back to her and the girls. She doubted if he even tasted the meal in front of him, though he woodenly ate it. She didn't taste much of her own breakfast. Wilson, Jensen, and Thomas, tired as he was, kept the conversation spinning nicely, and Rachel threw in occasional questions about horses.

They had just finished eating when House straightened up. "Jensen," he said. The psychiatrist looked over inquiringly. "We need to get going."

Jensen checked his watch. It was only 8:45. They had two appointments today, with Blythe's psychiatrist at 11:00 and with her primary care doctor at 3:00. "Okay," he agreed readily, not pointing out the fact.

House set Abby, still in his lap, aside and stood up, and Cuddy saw the hard resolution in him, as well as the fear behind it. His decision on the letters was made, and it scared the hell out of him. "I need to pick up a few things in the bedroom, then we'll hit the road. I'll need the keys to the van." Mutely, she pulled them out and handed them over.

He made all of two steps toward the bedroom before Abby locked onto his left leg, actually hampering his progress. "Dada."

He carefully set his balance and picked her up. "Come here, kid. It's okay." They went into the bedroom, and House closed the door.

Cuddy took a deep breath and turned to Jensen. "Be careful if you can," she said softly, and he nodded.

It was a couple of minutes before the bedroom door opened. Abby was walking now, though still at her father's side, and he was carrying the box of letters gingerly. He plopped them down on the end table, then picked up Abby, deposited her in the couch cushions, and handed her the little music computer, which had been on the same end table. "Play your game, Abby," he told her, switching it on, and she cued up the first song. House turned to his wife. "We might be tied up all day," he told her, and Cuddy's heart sank to her toes. "Don't count on us for meals, but I do have my meds and the heat patches. I'll have the cell phone on, and you can call when you and the girls need to." He picked up Rachel and gave her a hug, then set her back down. "It's all right, Rachel. I'll be back later, I promise." Turning to his wife again, he spoke a little more sharply. "And be sure you watch _him_ today with the girls. Come on, Jensen."

They left the suite, and Rachel stood irresolutely halfway between the front door and the group, looking from her mother and Thomas to the closed door through which her father had disappeared.

Thomas was tired enough that it took him a few seconds to sort through the sting of that last remark to Cuddy and arrive at the hidden invitation. "Did he say with?" he asked.

Wilson rewound mentally. "I definitely heard with."

Cuddy nodded, but her eyes were still glued to the door. "Come here, Rachel." Abby was wrapped up in her music game, but Rachel looked upset. "He'll be back. It's okay." Slowly, very unlike her usual pace, Rachel walked back over to join the group.

(H/C)

Down in the hotel parking garage, House and Jensen climbed into the van, and House placed the box on the seat behind them and then turned on the ignition. "Where are we going?" Jensen asked.

"I'm not sure." House turned out of the parking lot onto the street, randomly choosing left just because the turn across traffic was harder. He looked over at Jensen after a moment, then glanced back at the neatly boxed-up past waiting to be unboxed. "You really aren't going to bring it up, are you?"

"I told you I wouldn't unless you did. It's your choice."

House stopped at the first traffic light and twisted to face the psychiatrist directly. "Your three alternative methods of getting data suck," he stated. Jensen looked disappointed, but he wasn't abandoning ship, no matter what the decision. House waited long enough to be certain of that fact, then continued. "But I'm not going to read them."

Tension went out of the psychiatrist like a balloon popping, the surge of relief visible. "Thank you, Dr. House. That's the right decision. We can work through them one at a time and take several months with it in sessions."

House shook his head, and Jensen saw the quick nervousness in him as he plunged on. "I don't think I _can_ read them. But I need to know. So would you read them instead? Then you can tell me if they had enough info in them to have worked it out."

Jensen stared at him, momentarily speechless at the tribute. House's eyes were steady, although his body was almost quivering as he made himself trust. Still, the tone made it an honest question, not a demand, and the psychiatrist realized that House did understand fully what he was asking. His eyes said it all. Whatever happened with Thornton, whatever happened today, the two of them would be all right.

The light changed, and the car behind them beeped, but House still waited. Jensen smiled at him. "Yes."


	51. Chapter 51

Cuddy gave Rachel a reassuring hug, then stood up, quickly covering the few feet to the chair and kneeling next to Thomas. She could do nothing for her husband right now, but maybe she could help out in other areas. "I want to look at that foot," she demanded.

He pulled it back, but he was seated, limiting evasive action, and she was too fast for him. "Lisa," he protested, "it's _fine_."

"You mentioned last night on the phone that it didn't like the trip." She was working on his shoelaces. "And you were definitely favoring it walking across the room from the door a while ago."

"I had a long night," he replied. "That's the _only_ thing wrong with me, I promise." The stubborn set of her chin right now reminded him irresistibly of Emily.

Succeeding with his shoe, she set it aside. "If it's perfectly fine, no harm in me looking at it then." She peeled off his sock and caught her breath. The bruise had expanded slightly and had also gone into full-blown technicolor since her inspection yesterday morning. She cringed, carefully running her hands along it, then up to the ankle, checking the pulses.

Wilson got up and came over from his chair, and even Marina was hovering. "Ye-ouch," the oncologist said. "You sure gave it a good whack."

Cuddy moved over a little, yielding to somebody currently in active medical practice. "What do you think, Wilson? It looks worse than yesterday."

"All bruises look worse the second day than the first one," Thomas pointed out. "That doesn't mean anything."

Wilson seized the offended foot himself and carefully checked the pulses, then felt along the toe. "Definitely a bad bruise, but it's hard to tell only feeling it whether there might also be a nondisplaced fracture. I'm not an x-ray machine."

"Greg looked at it yesterday and said it wasn't broken," Thomas put in.

Wilson wished he'd been able to see that exam, just to watch the interaction. House definitely cared about his father, as much as he was trying desperately to keep the 10-foot pole in place. "Well, he'd know better than I would. He practically _is_ an x-ray machine." He pushed on a few of the nail beds, checking capillary refill, then reached for the ankle again. "Pulses are strong, if a little bit slow." He grabbed a wrist, comparing. "You're in good shape."

"I usually walk 4 1/2 miles every day - skipped it yesterday morning after hitting the foot that night and definitely skipped it this morning. I take a ride every day that I can, too."

Rachel was pushing in, worried, and even Abby set her game aside and slid down off the couch to join the others. Rachel reached out to touch the discolored area. "Ouch?" she asked.

Thomas smiled down at her. "I'm fine, Rachel. I just bruised it, but it will be okay in a few days."

"But not like Daddy's leg?"

"No, nothing like that, not at all. This is more like when you hit yourself accidentally on something. It hurts some for a day or two, then gradually gets better."

She nodded, accepting that, and then suddenly leaned over and kissed the toe quickly, then grinned up at him. "That's better?"

Thomas blinked a few times. "Yes, thank you, Rachel. That helped a lot." He looked at Cuddy. "Lisa, I promise, I'm just tired, and this is only a bruise. I'm all right." Getting uncomfortable with the attention, he turned to Abby, who was studying his foot at close range and had just reached out curiously to touch it herself. "Do you like your little music game, Abby?"

She snapped to attention as if reminded of something and promptly abandoned Thomas and headed for the couch, although she did say, "Yes," as she ran. She bounced impatiently a few times in her effort to scramble onto the couch again, and Marina gave her a helpful boost on her rump. Grabbing the music computer, Abby unpaused it and continued to run through songs, staring intently at the screen.

Cuddy reached out to the recliner control, pointedly elevating the footrest on Thomas' chair, then started replacing his sock and shoe. "She absolutely loves it," she told him. "Just as much as Rachel loves her stuffed horse."

Reminded, Rachel spun a circle, looking for it. "Ember!" Spotting the horse, she galloped over and squeezed the whinny ear.

Wilson watched her with a smile, picturing Daniel in a few years, then looked back at Thomas. "Yes, Santa Claus chose well on those two gifts," he stated with the slightest of question marks.

"Of course. Santa Claus has centuries of experience," Thomas replied.

"Did, um, Santa Claus happen to bring anything else this year to the House house? For the big boys and girls?" Wilson asked.

Thomas could look near as enigmatic as House when he wanted to, the oncologist decided. "Santa Claus doesn't tell people what other families got. He wouldn't want them to be jealous." Wilson sighed, and Cuddy managed to keep from laughing only by pretending to clear her throat.

Abby finished the current song and switched the device off, sliding back down. "Mama!" she called and headed toward the bedroom.

Marina was closer and went after her, assuming her destination was the bathroom. "I'll give you a hand, Abby."

"No!" Abby pulled away from her and came back around the corner of the couch. "Mama helps."

"It's all right, Marina." Cuddy dutifully walked over to join her daughter. "What's the matter, Abby? Boy, you're a wiggleworm today." As soon as she was sure Cuddy was coming, Abby had turned around and trotted back toward the bedroom door. Cuddy followed her in to find Abby not heading for the bathroom but trying to climb up onto the bed. "Abby, what -" Just then, Cuddy spotted the piece of paper sticking out partially against the headboard, tucked under the covers and leaving just enough protruding for a clue, easy to miss if you weren't specifically focusing on the bed. She hurried to grab it. In her husband's unmistakable writing, it said.

_I'm not going to read them. _

_O. K. _

Cuddy closed her eyes in relief, feeling the tension ebb. Abby was nearly vibrating beside her. "OK," her daughter emphasized. She reached out to trace the two large letters at the bottom, and Cuddy realized that those had been added for her benefit.

"Yes, he is." Hopefully would be, anyway. And he was with Jensen today; they could have some good sessions as well as the appointments and maybe at least start to work through some of this emotional mess before leaving tomorrow. His mother's death plus his feelings about Thomas plus all the turmoil of the past: He had really had a hell of a week. He had taken the letters; not that he would have ever left them behind with the group all day anyway, but maybe they would approach just one at a time like they should, starting today and continuing back in Princeton, or rather in Middletown. "Did he tell you to show me this, Abby?"

"Uh huh. Music first, then OK."

So he could escape without an explanation, which he hated. She wouldn't have demanded one of him anyway, letting him and Jensen go even more willingly with this knowledge, but she didn't blame him for wanting to slip away without a fuss. She picked up her daughter for a spontaneous hug, then sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out her cell phone.

He answered after only one ring, sounding tense but also amused. "How far did Abby hold out?"

"I'm not sure how many songs she listened to, but the last one was _Be Our Guest_."

"That really is the last one on the first page. Good for her. I told her to listen to all the songs on the first screen and then let you see the note, but I wasn't sure she'd make it all the way."

She heard the clear pride in his voice and shared it, reaching over to ruffle her daughter's hair. For a 2-year-old to keep a secret and hold a process even that long was amazing. "She really is something. Thank you, Greg, for listening to us. And watching and whatever else there was, it doesn't matter why, just thank you. I wouldn't have insisted on an explanation right then if you'd told me on the way out, though."

"I . . ." The tension was back in his voice. "It wasn't that easy. We - there are some things that need to be worked through. But I'm _not_ going to read those letters. Even if we do stay gone all day, you can believe that."

"It's all right. You don't have to give me the details. You and Jensen could use a day together just talking with everything that's happened lately. But again, thanks." She paused. "About it being all day, though, are you sure you picked up enough meds?"

There was fond annoyance in his voice. "Don't worry, Lisa. Besides, you can do an inventory. I'm sure you will before long anyway. How's his foot this morning?"

"How did you know I'd -"

"I figured you'd have to fuss over something as soon as I was gone. You do that when you're worried. And if I wasn't there, he's the next handy victim at the moment, especially when he looks like he rode back tied to the top of the plane. So how does it look?"

"It's a lot more colorful, but the pulses are still strong. Wilson checked him out, too, and Thomas insists that he's only tired. Wilson commented that he is in good shape cardiovascularly. I think it's just a bad bruise."

His tone relaxed. "I told you that yesterday. You're just worrying about nothing again; he'll be fine. Let me talk to Abby for a minute, okay?" She passed the phone to her daughter and listened to their conversation, her smile still there. After that, he wanted to talk to Rachel for a minute, too, and she went back out into the main room, passed Rachel the phone, then handed the note silently to Thomas. He read it and gave a deep sigh of relief himself. Wilson edged over, and she handed it on. Wilson had been there last night at the original demand, after all, knew about the letters now, and was worried himself. Marina read it over his shoulder.

Rachel trotted up to her mother, holding out the phone. "Daddy says bye."

"Thank you, Rachel." She slipped the phone back into a pocket, then let out a shuddering sigh and looked at the note again, then down at Abby. She should have suspected something. Abby had had the same "on a mission" intensity at that music assignment that her father did when he was locked onto a task. "Abby, you could have let that secret slip a little earlier, you know."

Abby grinned up at her, obviously hearing that affection far topped annoyance in her mother's words. "OK," she repeated, reaching up to point to the note.

"You know your letters already, Abby?" Thomas asked.

"Uh huh." She looked annoyed after a few seconds, irritated at the data that was missing. "No."

Cuddy ruffled her hair. "She knows about a third of them. Rachel knows some, too. Greg's been trying to show them when he reads to them."

Rachel shoved the stuffed Ember at him and pointed to a hoof. "T," she started, tracing the word on the bottom. "T."

"T, R, O, T," Thomas read. "That spells trot. That's one gait a horse has." He squeezed the hoof. "Hear how even it is?" Rachel leaned over the side of the chair closer to focus more, and Abby, message delivered, left them, returning to the couch and picking back up her music computer, only this time, she was following the notes, watching the music on the bottom instead of just fulfilling an assignment. Cuddy looked from one to the other of her daughters. Her smile was still there.

(H/C)

Jensen had insisted during the first letter that House stop driving while they did this, since he was as focused on the psychiatrist as he was on the traffic. Grumbling, House had pulled into the nearest Wal-Mart. They both went in to use the facilities, and House bought two Cokes, a large bag of chips, and a little electronic game, but back in the van, he was wrecking his car far more often than usual. He sat in the driver's seat, munching chips occasionally, trying to interpret the other man's expression and get a preview of what the final results would be later on. Jensen read slowly, thoroughly, taking time to absorb them. The letters were neatly in date order, and they seemed to average 2-3 pages long. Most of the time, the expressions House caught flickers of in his eyes at peak moments could have been classified as either anger or sadness, one pushing to the foreground, then the other.

House was glad that Cuddy didn't seem mad at his getaway, but he hadn't been able to share what he planned, not in advance. He also hadn't known if Jensen would agree. But watching the group during breakfast, seeing the clear stress in his family and recognizing it as a reflection of that in himself, he suddenly had known that this was simply too much, both for them and for him. He could not read the contents of Pandora's box, but if he started and hit overload, he wouldn't just be able to reclose the flaps and go on, either.

Jensen was the perfect solution if he could do it; House knew he felt some guilt over this whole thing himself. But a surrogate reader would have to be either Cuddy or Jensen. He didn't trust anybody else to that extent, and Cuddy, while he trusted her more, was too close. She would take almost as much of an emotional hit from reading those letters as he would. No, it was the psychiatrist with his years of professional experience at handling disturbing revelations to help him balance the personal feelings, with his objectivity, his keen analysis, and yet his friendship, who was the better choice here.

But it was hard to sit and just watch. House knew now he could not read them, but he couldn't help trying to follow along from the sidelines.

On the screen, his car spun out of control and wrecked again.


	52. Chapter 52

Blythe's psychiatrist was located in a single-level complex of offices. House parked the van in the handicapped slot, then got out and paused, looking at the neatly mulched shrubs the whole length of the complex in between each set of office doors. Jensen joined him and followed his gaze. "I wonder if she picked her therapist based on the landscaping," the psychiatrist said.

"Probably," House agreed. "I can see her driving by and liking the look of it. It wouldn't have occurred to her to do a thorough professional review of credentials like people should."

Jensen concealed his smile, remembering that House himself had chosen him based on only two criteria: Being located out of state and having appointments available on Saturday. Jensen took a deep breath, enjoying the crisp outdoors air. It wasn't as cold today, although by no stretch of the imagination could it have passed for spring. But he was glad for this microbreak outside, a few moments of doing nothing in particular before switching gears to the upcoming appointment.

He had made it perhaps a fourth of the way through the letters in the time he'd spent fully focused on the task after they had parked at Wal-Mart and before they had left to drive across town to the psychiatrist's office. The thought had occurred to him that this was a little like unexpectedly being handed a 300-page book in the morning and being told that not only was your report on it due before the end of the day but that a large portion of the grade for this class would come from that report. The letters themselves were heartbreaking in retrospect. They might have easily been fiction, simply a letter-format story, were it not for the constant reminder that these people and the hidden background were all too real. House wasn't making the process much easier, although Jensen hadn't said anything to him. He knew the other man couldn't help the tension, the occasional curses and outbursts at his game, and the frequent quick, nervous looks. He was impressed that House had refrained from requests for a running commentary or partial report. More couldn't be expected from House, not today, not with this can of worms.

House shifted his weight and looked over. "Ready?"

"Yes." Jensen held his pace back unobtrusively to match House's, and they entered the office together. The secretary checked them in and quietly expressed sympathy over Blythe's death. House's only response was, "Yeah," as he turned away from the desk. He limped to the window, looking out it, and Jensen hoped that the psychiatrist was running fairly to schedule today.

He was. Dr. Sauer entered the small waiting room within just a minute or two of the secretary calling back on the intercom. "Dr. House," he said, offering a hand. "You have my heartfelt sympathies on your mother." He looked over curiously at Jensen, who had crossed the room right at House's side, obviously accompanying him.

"I'm Dr. Michael Jensen," the psychiatrist explained.

"Ah, yes. I spoke with you on the phone a few weeks ago. I hadn't expected . . . nice to actually meet you in person. Come in, both of you. Have a seat." He stood back, holding the door to the inner office, and House entered first. He stopped just inside, but Jensen had been expecting that and already had the brakes on as House studied the office and the seating, comparing.

This office was light both in color scheme and in the sunlight through the window. Four chairs were available but not with the range of style and placement offered in Jensen's office, and while there were books here, Jensen's had more. The desk was equally solid, though, and looked like it might well be nearly as old, perhaps an heirloom from Dr. Sauer's grandfather. Three pieces of pleasantly impersonal artwork were on the walls, and to one side, a shelf of African violets bloomed under a plant light.

She had spent hours here, House thought, talking through the past. He did a differential on the chairs and picked the one on the far side of the front of the desk closest to the violets as her most likely choice. He limped over slowly. Jensen sat down in the chair immediately to his left, and Dr. Sauer took his place behind the desk. "First, just for the formal requirement, may I see your ID?"

House produced it and passed it over. The doctor obviously had already recognized him from the media last summer, but at least he didn't say so. Jensen offered his, too, and Dr. Sauer glanced at them, then handed them back.

This meeting was an unusual request, Sauer thought, but House was Blythe's emergency contact and next-of-kin, and Blythe herself had released her therapy notes to him over a year ago when the Chandler situation had first come up. Just a few weeks ago, she also had fully authorized the telephone conference with Jensen as they prepared for the sessions in Princeton, putting no limits on discussion even though she hadn't been listening in on the call. Sauer would be completely open with them, whatever they wanted from this appointment. He looked from House - tense, under obvious strain, but with searing intelligence in the vivid blue eyes - to Jensen - steadier on the surface but with much more than merely professional interest in his own dark eyes, not to mention the fact that he had physically come across several states and left his practice for several days (assuming he, too, had been here since the funeral) to be with House right now. These two were more than just patient and psychiatrist. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

House led off as expected. "How did Mom seem to you lately?"

"The last time I saw her, the last several times, in fact, she was very much anticipating the Christmas visit to Princeton. She wanted to see you and your family and was excited about that. When you decided to add in the talks about the past, she was looking forward to the visit even more. I'm sure you realize this, but she had wanted to have a good sit-down session with you to discuss things in depth for a long time. I had often explained to her why that wasn't realistic and that it was going to take time even in small doses. I also told her in December that this visit almost certainly wouldn't cover everything and box it up neatly like she wished it could, but she was very glad you were going to be talking about the past more together."

House nodded. Blythe had wanted to talk about everything since the day of her discovery, rehashing the past, apologizing, and getting it behind them. "How did she seem physically? Any recent differences?"

Sauer had thought that one over a few times since receiving the news. "No. She never totally shook off the effects of that accident a few years ago, but she seemed just the same as her post-accident baseline. Hadn't lost weight. She didn't seem tired to me at all, although I only saw her in the office setting, and she was usually wound up a little for appointments. We'd covered a lot of emotionally charged ground in those sessions. She found it helpful, but I'm sure she geared herself up for them in advance."

House's eyes were blue lasers, the focus so intent that Sauer could easily understand right now certain aspects - positive and negative - of his reputation. "In all that emotionally charged ground," House challenged, "she never _once _showed physical symptoms?"

"No," Sauer replied, his voice even. Obviously, House was feeling some guilt over not noticing anything himself, which made perfect sense psychiatrically. "I have seen her get upset many times, to the point of tears even, as we discussed the past. But there was never anything that made me suspect physical symptoms. If she was having them, I think she was probably refusing to admit their seriousness even to herself, and she believed that so strongly that they honestly did _not_ show."

Jensen spoke up. "You said you had asked her a few times about her medical health."

"Yes, I had. On her initial paperwork and workup, and of course, it came up after she was hit by that car. I expected some possible disability issues there because of the cane, but those didn't develop." That was a prime piece of emotionally charged ground itself in front of House, and he held eye contact, careful not to give even the suggestion of a look at the other man's leg. "I would ask her at least every couple of months if there was anything new physically going on, and I did ask if she was regularly following with a doctor."

"And she said she was," House filled in. Sauer nodded. "Trouble is, her doctor doesn't confirm that. We haven't talked to him yet, will this afternoon, but according to the office manager, she was overdue for a physical and hadn't been in for a while until she made an acute appointment in early December when she complained of fatigue and GI symptoms. They recommended full workup immediately, including cardiac. She put it off." He stared at Sauer, dissecting his reaction. "She never mentioned any of that to you?"

"No. I didn't know she was having any symptoms, and I definitely didn't know she'd been to the doctor recently or that he'd recommended more testing." He looked at Jensen. "I would have told you that when we spoke. Everything she showed me throughout December was purely anticipation of the upcoming visit."

House sighed and drummed his fingers against his cane handle in a quick, annoyed rhythm, though Jensen couldn't help noticing the precision even then and wondering what subconscious song it matched. "What was your opinion of her reality orientation?" Jensen asked.

"It was definitely lacking in some areas. Not to the point of being delusional - at least not currently - but she certainly engaged in magical thinking at times. I don't believe she did lie to me in December, for instance, or to you all at Princeton about her physical condition. I think she must have actually believed herself that nothing serious was wrong, or that it would wait nicely in line. The belief almost _became_ the reality, at least in her mind."

House gripped the cane tighter. "In those sessions, you talked about me and John all the time, right?"

"Almost exclusively, yes. And her missing it. She felt extreme guilt over that, combined with a wish still to somehow make it right. We had many sessions on that."

"How much did she mention -" House hesitated. "Thornton?"

Sauer's eyes narrowed. "Who is Thornton?"

House looked over at Jensen, and Sauer could almost see the baton passed. Jensen was quick to grasp it. "Thomas Thornton." He paused long enough to see if the first name rang a bell, but Sauer clearly hadn't ever heard it. "Dr. House's biological father."

"Oh. She mentioned him once or maybe twice but not by name. It was just in passing. I tried probing for details once when she said that John hadn't been your father, but she just said it was a one-time mistake that they both regretted. Not that she regretted _you_, understand, Dr. House, but morally, she thought cheating as a married woman had been wrong. But in the catalog of her regrets, cheating on John was minor. We weren't short of other larger material to talk about, and that point didn't seem emotionally charged for her. Her cheating would have predated almost everything we discussed."

"Those one or two times happened _when_, exactly?" House pushed.

"Right close to the beginning of our appointments. Probably within the first six months."

"It was in the notes," Jensen reminded House.

"Not since then?" House demanded. "Specifically about the time of the trial last summer or right after that. He never came up in a session then?"

"No."

House wasn't sure whether to feel reassured or more guilty over that. Blythe had fretted over his mandate and his relationship to the man; that was the whole context of that letter. But she had never mentioned it in the confidentiality of this room where she could have, where he himself had given her permission to talk openly about him and the past. Was that due to that selective ignoring of things Sauer had mentioned or to her automatic respect for his commanded limits? "Did she. . ." He paused, trying to phrase it. "Did you often get the feeling from her in sessions that there were a lot of things she didn't want to talk about yet?"

"Not at all. I'm assuming we're speaking purely in the psychiatric field at the moment and not about her hiding physical symptoms. She was _very_ invested in sessions, even overeager. I was the one who had to gauge discussions and pace it out. She wanted to talk about things, and she gladly would have pushed it beyond her physical limits and taken several hours of sessions in a row."

House snapped to attention. "So you _did _see her physical limits at times."

"No, I didn't. But I think that if I hadn't been firm in ending sessions at times and only taking this in 1-hour bites, I might have seen them. It never got that far; I was only referring to the potential."

House was silent, absorbing that. Jensen gave him a moment, then asked his own question. "So you think she was potentially capable of ignoring physical limits when she was talking about something she was invested in emotionally?"

"Yes. She was . . . incredibly good at believing what she wanted to. But I don't think that the setup you described in our phone call, two hours max per day for three days with a several-hour break of family time in between the two, should have pushed those limits. Of course, none of us knew about the acute physical symptoms at the moment."

"_She_ did," House growled.

"None of us except her. The obituary said that she died in her sleep during the night Tuesday. I believe it specifically said quietly."

House looked startled there. He hadn't read the obituary; Thornton must have written it. Jensen, who had read it, nodded. "It did say quietly. Furthermore, it's true. It wasn't during one of our discussions. She died in her sleep of a heart attack several hours after stopping." He left out the bathroom light and the signs that she hadn't been feeling well when she made the choice to go to bed instead of seeking help from the two doctors right down the same hall.

Sauer's expression was full of regret. "I wish she'd talked to me about that doctor's appointment or her symptoms, but really, from what I know and from watching her over the years, none of us have anything to blame ourselves for in her death. She had every chance to speak up and didn't. It also sounds like it might well have happened anyway, either from the excitement of the trip or even back at home." House didn't look convinced. Jensen absorbed it but with the air of a calculation going on, a careful balancing of how that opinion fit on the scales. "One other thing, Dr. House." He waited for House to look up. "I have noticed a distinct change in her since starting these sessions. She was much happier now than she was at first."

"She had a lot of new friends," House pointed out.

"She had made a lot of friends since John's death. He apparently absolutely stifled her, although she didn't see it that way. But she was getting more active socially after his funeral even before we started our sessions. No, I think the change in her specifically had to do with feeling that she had a better relationship than she ever had had before with you. She loved you and your wife and those girls. I don't think anything could have made her cancel that trip to Princeton, even well before you thought of adding the mutual sessions. She was excited clear back a few months in advance, talking about spending Christmas together. I don't believe any doctor on earth could have backed her out of it. She was probably happier now than she ever had been in her life."

House looked down at his fingers on the cane. Ridiculous to be comforted by that thought. Happy or miserable, she was still _dead_. But some part deep inside him stored up those words to replay them privately in the future.

Jensen spoke softly. "Do you want to ask him anything else?" House eyed the chart on the desk, then shook his head. He didn't need to read this one. He'd read the part up through Chandler, Episode One, already and had been reduced to tears by the revisiting of the past, in spite of the professional phrasing. He'd take the man's word for it that there was nothing new there since. This afternoon with the medical doc, yes, he wanted to see every last lab report, but he didn't want the psych notes.

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Sauer." Jensen was speaking again, House realized, and Sauer was giving polite pleasantries in return. House hauled himself to his feet, and the two of them left the office.

Outside in the van, House just sat there for a moment in the driver's seat thinking. Jensen said nothing, giving him space. "What did the obituary say?" he finally asked.

"It was focused on her family - John got one brief mention and that was it, name only, no details, but you and Dr. Cuddy and the girls were listed. It mentioned her activities and the groups she was in lately and her volunteer work at the cancer hospital. Also that she loved flowers. It did say that she died quietly in her sleep Tuesday night. When you want to see it -"

"I _don't_ want to see it," House interrupted.

"_When_ you're ready to, I'm sure Dr. Cuddy kept a copy on file."

One corner of House's lip quirked upward. "I'm sure she did," he agreed. He sat there for a moment thinking, then glanced at the box of letters in the back seat, then at Jensen, then at his watch. He turned on the ignition. "Let's get lunch first before hitting the rest of it," he said, and there was a silent acknowledgement in the look at Jensen, although his hand also crept a quarter of the way toward his leg. He was due for meds.

"What about Chinese?" Jensen suggested.

"If we can find one that doesn't look like their daily special is food poisoning." He pulled out onto the road. "Not a bad shrink, but he needs more comfortable chairs."

"And a guitar," Jensen agreed. "African violets are a nice touch, but sometimes, you just need a guitar." House relaxed a little more and started scanning the businesses, looking for a Chinese place.

It didn't take long to find one. Over the meal, they talked mostly about music. House, without a word, picked up the check. Jensen, without drawing emphasis to it, let him. Then they returned to the van and headed again toward Wal-Mart, the box of letters waiting behind them on the middle seat, visible in the rear-view mirror.


	53. Chapter 53

They ate lunch up in the suite with the girls instead of going downstairs, just a quiet meal together. Rachel had been wound up much of the morning, chattering about horses and other animals and even insisting that Cuddy call Sandra at one point for another brief assurance that Belle was doing fine. Abby joined her sister with the stuffed menagerie for a while playing zoo, but she was mostly focused on her music game and also listening, just quietly _absorbing_ like a sponge, Thomas thought. You could see her doing it. She knew things were happening around her, even if her father was "okay." This day had had entirely too much adrenaline load to this point, and all of the adults expected the girls to hit a wall soon.

Cuddy called House again after lunch, catching him just as he and Jensen had finished eating, he said. He didn't give details on the appointment with the psychiatrist, and she didn't ask. He still sounded tense, but she thought he also had a trace of his differential tone in his voice, obviously thinking hard about things. She didn't keep him long, just briefly touching base with him and letting the girls do the same.

She had just taken the phone back from Abby and ended the call when Thomas' cell rang. He pulled it out with a curious glance at the caller ID, then a quick surge of worry. "It's the stable," he announced as he answered. Cuddy saw the thought almost as plainly as if he had spoken it. Something else must be wrong; if he had a schedule for them to check in when he was out of town, this wasn't it. Thomas was nothing if not resilient, but for a quick second, she saw the unspoken plea in his eyes. _No more._

"Hello, Bob," he said cautiously.

"Hi, Thomas. Am I calling at a bad time? You said that friend's funeral was Monday." The stable manager didn't sound like he was bearing terribly bad news, and Thomas adjusted mental scenarios appropriately, switching to minor inconveniences, not something like the mare having died.

"Yes, it was Monday. It's all right; I can talk for a few minutes. What's wrong?"

"Ember managed to step on a shoe and pull it in turnout this morning while she was bucking and playing around, and she cut another leg on a nail when it hit her as it flew off. She'll be fine; it's minor. Three stitches and a few days of rest. The vet just left. But I wanted to tell you now before you turn up out here at some godawful hour straight from the airport and find her bandaged. You're kind of unpredictable these days."

Thomas relaxed, and Cuddy, watching intently across the room, cautiously let the new worry stand down. "I'm just keeping you all on your toes. Making sure you're doing your job right." Thomas was joking, and Bob knew it. He had kept horses there for over thirty years and had known Bob from when Bob was a kid himself and his father was the one in charge at the barn. Bob and Tim had been good friends and often ridden together.

"Of course, there's the shoe. Farrier is coming Friday, and I'll put her down to get it reset. She wouldn't have been doing much till then anyway. Think we should redo all four?"

Thomas thought for a moment. "What has it been, about five weeks?"

"Right. Nice and inconvenient. She shouldn't have been due quite yet, but as long as we're replacing one. . ."

"Go ahead and have him look at her anyway and see what he thinks. I'd rather keep all four on the same schedule. And tell her I'll take the bills out of her carrot allowance." Bob chuckled. "How's she doing?" Thomas asked, his voice softening up.

"She's fine. Missing you, but Lewis has taken her out several times while you've been gone. They had a good long ride yesterday. I'll call him as soon as I finish with you to tell him she's on the DL for a few days."

"I should be home myself late tomorrow. I'll come out Friday just to groom even if Ember can't take a ride yet." Thomas smiled at Rachel, who was listening to the one-sided conversation with interest, trying to sort it out, knowing it was about the horse. An idea struck him. "Actually, Bob, I happen to have a young friend here who would love to talk to Ember for a minute if we can."

"Talk to . . .oh." The light dawned. "Your latest trick."

"Yes. She does it fine for Lewis. Can you try?"

"Sure. No guarantees, though." Footsteps on the barn aisles carried through the phone. "It's the right side, isn't it?"

"Yes, a few inches down from the crest." Thomas set the phone down. "Rachel, would you like to talk to Ember?"

Rachel's eyes widened. "_Talk_ to Ember," she repeated, as if Christmas, Hanukkah, and her birthday had all made a joint reappearance.

Wilson had come to attention also. "Say _what_?"

"If she wants to, Rachel. Sometimes she doesn't feel like talking, but I'm sure she'd enjoy a conversation with a girl who liked horses. Come on. Abby, would you like to talk to Ember?" Thomas put the phone on speaker. "Come here, girls."

Abby looked dubious, but Rachel ran over, and to Thomas' surprise and then delight, she didn't stop this time standing at the side of the chair. She scrambled up with determination into his lap, reaching for the phone.

"Okay, I'm at her stall," Bob said, and the sound of the latch sliding back was heard. "Whoa, big girl. I've got somebody here who wants a word with you. I'm putting you on speaker, Thomas."

"Hello, Ember," Thomas said. "How are you doing, girl?" The responding whinny, startlingly loud at close range, reverberated through the phone and made Rachel's eyes widen even more. Abby slid down off the couch and walked over.

"That wasn't cued," Bob informed him. Thomas smiled. "Okay, here goes. Testing, one, two . . ." Ember whinnied again.

"Good girl." Thomas nudged Rachel, who was rapt. "Tell her hi, Rachel."

"Hi, Ember," she said. Ember whinnied back to her, and Rachel was off to the verbal races. "Ember, my horsey Ember says hi. I named it like you." The mare whinnied again. Abby scrambled up into Thomas' lap with a slight assist from him. She was studying the phone much like her father did lab results. Rachel, meanwhile, was prattling on about her stuffed menagerie and telling Ember she wished she could see her and that it was neat that she was a red horse, pausing every few words for a response.

"I'm losing her," Bob warned softly.

Thomas was impressed she'd made it that far. While he had taught Ember the trick himself, he never ran it in rapid-fire succession like this. Rachel, of course, had no idea of restraint or demands. To her, she _was _talking with the horse. "Ember needs to say bye now, girls. Say bye, Rachel. You want to say bye, Abby?" Rachel did, Abby didn't. Abby was still trying to work out the catch here. Thomas picked up the phone, putting it off speaker. "_Good_ girl, Ember. I'll see you soon. Give her a carrot, Bob."

"This was what I like about you, Thomas; you're never quite routine. Your little friend sounds like a live wire. I'll see you Friday." Bob ended the call, and Thomas repocketed his cell phone.

"Wow." Rachel's eyes were shining like stars.

Abby reached toward the pocket that had swallowed the cell phone. "How?" she demanded.

"Ember was talking to us," Thomas told her. Her skeptical expression was priceless.

"Thomas," Cuddy called, and he looked up as she clicked the camera on her cell phone, perfectly capturing him in the recliner with both girls in his lap half turned away from their mother and facing him. She took another just for good measure. "I'll send you a copy. And thank you for that. That was sweet of you."

Wilson at the moment looked like an older version of Abby. "Your horse speaks on command? Wait until House hears about this, which I'm sure will be within the first minute after he sees Rachel."

"Oh, he already knows Ember talks," Thomas assured him. "She's talked to him." Cuddy laughed.

Rachel leaned back comfortably against Thomas. "You talk to Ember?" she asked.

"I talk to her a lot." That had the ring of much more truth than just a reply to a toddler, and Cuddy was seized by the image of Thomas out alone on trails, riding his horse, telling her what he couldn't tell anyone else. The mare obviously was bonded to him; that first whinny of greeting had had a slightly different note than the subsequent ones on command, even to ears which weren't educated on equines. She was glad he had one outlet and one set of sympathetic listening ears, but the thought also was bittersweet. No matter how good a friend the horse was to him, it still didn't replace human contact.

"How does she do it?" Wilson asked. The oncologist had followed Cuddy's thought; he was looking sympathetic himself.

"A tap in a specific spot on the side of her neck."

"And you taught her that?" Thomas nodded.

Abby slid down off the recliner and returned to the couch. Rachel finally got down herself, retrieving the stuffed horse and starting a conversation with it, punctuated by whinnies and snorts in reply. Thomas settled back and felt an odd feeling of contentment, followed immediately by wondering how Greg's day was going. He, of course, wasn't eligible to call and touch base with him today. At least Greg wasn't reading the letters. "Lisa," he asked softly, "did Greg sound all right?"

"He sounded like he was thinking," she replied.

"Good," Wilson said. "And remember, Jensen is with him."

It wasn't too long after that that Abby fell asleep. Marina nudged Cuddy and pointed to her, but the adults carefully said nothing in front of Rachel, who would have resented any suggestion that she do the same. Rachel was running down herself, though, and before much longer, she was curled up on the floor with the horse instead of talking to it. Marina quietly picked her up, and one hand clutched the mane. "Ember," Rachel mumbled in her sleep. Marina smiled and adjusted her grip to include the toy, and she gently carried her to the bedroom. Cuddy picked up Abby and followed.

Thomas gave a soft sigh, feeling the exhaustion settle over him again like a wave. He'd been fighting it in surges all day. "You could take a nap, too, you know," Wilson suggested. "It's a good opportunity for it."

Thomas looked toward the bedroom door. He was almost afraid to, afraid he'd wake up in some other reality alone again, reluctant to miss one grain of the sands disappearing through the hourglass of the present. "I hate to waste the time," he admitted.

Wilson straightened up, the doctor stepping to the front. "Taking care of yourself isn't a waste of time, and you can't have gotten much sleep last night. Physically, you need to recharge a little. The girls are asleep for a while, and you really do look beat."

Cuddy and Marina quietly exited the bedroom just in time to hear the last phrase. Cuddy immediately jumped on the bandwagon. "That's a great idea, Wilson. Please, Thomas, take a nap while they are." He still looked reluctant, with a twinge of Housian stubbornness added, and her expression softened. "You're afraid of the clock striking midnight or something and it all ending, aren't you?"

"We do all go home tomorrow afternoon," he pointed out. "This visit is just about over any way you slice it."

She walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. "Thomas, you aren't running out of time with me. No matter what. I promise." He slowly reached up to put one hand over hers, returning the pressure with a gratitude too large for words. "Actually," she continued, "I think Greg will come around eventually. Maybe not right now; things are happening too fast for him this last week. But given some time, you _are_ winning."

"Thank you, Lisa," he said. Trying to lighten up the moment in front of the other two, he grinned up at her. "Well, you're a pretty good prophet so far. You were right about meeting the girls." She looked confused. "When we talked on the phone on Christmas, you said that maybe next year, we could all be together, even if just for a visit. It's officially next year, has been for three days. So you were right." She laughed.

Marina walked over a little closer to the recliner. "You've lived in St. Louis for a long time," the nanny stated.

"Since the late 1970s," he agreed.

"How would you feel about relocating?" she asked. "Once he -" She obviously edited that statement halfway. "Eventually, _if_ things work out. It's a long way from Princeton."

He sighed. "I'd already decided back on Christmas Day to move. I've been thinking about it since I got back from Europe, and I decided to give it one more year, and if Princeton wasn't . . . wasn't available, to go ahead and pick somewhere else. I love that house, but it's simply too big anymore."

Marina looked sympathetic. "How big is it?"

"Two full floors. Four big bedrooms and lots of other space. We had a very active and social young teen when we bought it, and my sister and Emily's family would visit often, too. We deliberately picked it for the extra room." He pulled his cell phone out again and sorted through the pictures. "I think I have one of it on here. There it is." He handed the phone over, and the other three huddled up to look at it.

The picture was obviously mimicking the classic American Gothic painting. Thomas and Emily stood out front, him with a pitchfork, both of them with dour expressions and both fighting hard to maintain them, but the laughter in the eyes was stronger than the hard-held faces. This hadn't been taken too many years ago, both clearly seniors already although looking vigorously healthy. Cuddy studied them for a long minute before shifting attention to the house in the background. "That is a _neat_ picture," she said. "And that's _way_ too big a house to live in alone."

Wilson, too, was looking at the couple more than the house. "How long were you married?" he asked.

"Forty-nine years," Thomas replied. _Four months, seven days, and eight minutes._

The oncologist looked impressed. "She was beautiful."

"Yes, she was. Inside and out."

Cuddy handed him the phone back, and Marina switched into bustling caring mode. "For _now_," the nanny stated, "you need to take a nap while the girls are, like he said."

Thomas looked over at Cuddy and gave in. "All right, on one condition." She looked at him inquiringly. "That you take one yourself, Lisa."

"I wasn't the one running around all night," she protested.

"You look pretty tired for just an alleged peaceful night's sleep, and I know I woke you up."

"So did the girls," Marina put in.

"I _did_ get sleep. I was just having weird dreams." Cuddy studied him, then yielded herself. If that was the only way to get him to cooperate, so be it. "All right, it's a deal, but I'll only lie down as long as the girls are."

"Agreed. And to enforce that, I'm not going back down to my room." He smiled at her _caught_ expression. "Because we both know that you would try to pad it out for me for another hour or so after they were awake before you called."

Wilson grinned. "You're good at this," he noted. "It reminds me of somebody. Come on, Cuddy, the nap's a-wasting."

Cuddy turned for the bedroom. "No phone, no laptop," Thomas emphasized. "Just lying there with your eyes closed." She walked on without replying and closed the door.

Marina headed for the girls' bedroom. She would at least keep them quiet in there as long as she could after they woke up. "Pleasant dreams," she said as she went in.

Thomas looked at Wilson, who was standing there like the nap police, and then closed his eyes, settling back in the recliner. Wilson sat down on the couch, quietly on duty. "Check on her in a few minutes," Thomas requested without opening his eyes. "No cheating."

"I will," Wilson promised. He sat there watching. The old man really was exhausted; it didn't take him much time at all to fall asleep, leaving the oncologist alone with his thoughts. _Forty-nine years_. They had still been happy, too; the picture couldn't have been more clear on that point. Still enjoying each other thoroughly. Thornton had made it work.

Wilson had been thinking lately about proposing to Sandra, had almost even bought a ring for Christmas, but part of him wanted to wait, to look at this thoroughly, to make _sure_. He was sure of Sandra and of Daniel, his family, but he had to admit he did have a lousy track record. He wanted Mrs. Wilson IV to be the last in the line. He knew he was making progress, was working on things with Jensen, and that he was closer to Sandra than he ever had been, much closer than with any of the others. He had finally decided to skip Christmas, just letting it be Daniel's first Christmas without extra pre-ring anxiety attached, and to talk with Jensen about it once they got into the new year. He thought he was ready, but he wanted a backup opinion on that. Then everything had erupted right after Christmas with Blythe, and he hadn't had a chance in the crisis. This simply wasn't the time. Once they got back to Princeton, though, once life had settled down a little bit, he would bring it up in his next routine session.

He had never expected to be inspired himself by House's father. On top of supporting his friend on this trip, he admittedly had been curious to meet Thornton, to question him, but he had been unprepared to take anything away from the meetings himself other than new information. More and more, though, he hoped that Thornton did move to Princeton ultimately. Even aside from House now, Wilson wanted to get to know him, not to grill him, but just to know him. He seemed like a neat old guy. _Forty-nine years_. Wilson and Sandra would be pushing it to make that long, but they had a chance.

He sat quietly watching the other man sleep, and though he did as promised get up to check on Cuddy soon - she was out like a light, too - he returned promptly to the couch and to his thoughts of the future. Also of the past, but even more of the future.


	54. Chapter 54

A/N: Hi, readers! Short update today. Next up is the doctor's appointment plus Jensen finishing the letters.

Please remember that there was a couple of month gap between Superstition and H&F. Other conversations have been had; other info has been exchanged. Each story itself is a comprehensive glimpse of that point in time (so there is nothing major happening during H&F that I won't mention in this story), but there are usually intervals in between the stories. When the time is right in the plot, you sometimes get a summary mention later of part of what happened in the intervals on major points, for instance an upcoming conversation about how much Thomas has been told to date about the girls, but you aren't ever going to have every word that has been exchanged. So don't assume that the knowledge base/situation at the end of Superstition matches up 100% with that of H&F with nothing more learned by characters about each other in the meantime. There will also be a short gap between H&F and Father's Day, the next story.

I'm looking forward to getting to Father's Day, which really is almost entirely about one day, albeit a significant day on a whole bunch of levels. It's a Friday night and then extensively on a Saturday and is very much a House and Thomas story where Thomas is making his first (nontrial) visit to Princeton, and they try spending a "test" day together. Then after that, there will also be a little bit of a time jump to the next story, which is another case story with a lot of team, though with family members always around the edges.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

(H/C)

Jensen finished the latest letter and added it to the growing "finished" stack. That pile was a little larger than the unread letters and now had taken over the box. Instead of picking up the next letter in line from the pile of unread ones on his right leg, though, he reached for the door handle. "I'm going to take a break for a few minutes and stretch my legs," he announced.

House put down the game, leaving his electronic car to spin out of control without a second thought. "You mean it's time _I _did," he snapped. "I don't need a babysitter."

Jensen slid out of the van, moving the box and the unread stack off his lap and onto the seat. He picked up his Coke. "_I_ need a break for a minute," he repeated. "Join me if you want to." Without further debate, he simply closed the van door and walked off.

House, left alone ready for a fight but without an opponent, picked the game back up, pointedly _not_ getting out, even though now that he thought about it, his leg was telling him he'd sat still longer than it wanted. The new round was just as low a score as the others today, to his annoyance, and he was just as distracted. He kept shooting glances at Jensen when he thought the other man wasn't looking, but he realized after a minute that Jensen really wasn't keeping an eye on him. He hadn't even looked back in House's direction. Instead, the psychiatrist was walking up and down the parking lot, never going far from the van but genuinely stretching his legs. He was even rotating his shoulders a little as if trying to release tense muscles.

An annoying pang of conscience stabbed at House, and he put down the game. Reaching around into the back seat to retrieve his cane, which was propped across the gap between the two car seats, he tweaked the leg, and as he cursed and made a more careful turn back to face forward, cane now in hand, his eye happened to fall on the box of letters. He honestly wasn't trying to read them; they were just in his visual way. The last letter Jensen had finished was flipped over on top of the stack, with the signature page facing upwards, and House paused at his mother's signature.

How many times had he seen that over his life? Probably less often than many sons had, but the total was still impressive. It was easily legible, but somehow, on this decades-old letter, it struck him as tight, kept within firm boundaries, the loops not relaxed. Perhaps in a way it had been admitting what she couldn't face herself, that her life wasn't perfect after all. He tried to remember if her signature had relaxed more in her farewell letter to him, even as emotionally charged as that had been, and he shifted to reach in his wallet for the letter to compare the _Blythe_ from decades ago with last summer's _Mom._ He froze partway as he noticed two words in the last line directly above her name on this old letter. _Wonderful time._

Bile rose in his throat, and he turned firmly away and swallowed several times, forgetting signatures, just wanting, no, _needing_ some fresh air himself now. He opened the van door and started his painstaking descent. He looked for Jensen; the psychiatrist was near the end of his informal track, about twenty feet away, almost ready to turn around and walk back this way.

At that moment, Jensen's cell phone rang, and he stopped and pulled it out. His voice was low, but House saw more of the tension go out of those shoulders. Trapped between wanting to join Jensen as far better company than his thoughts, yet wondering if he should give him some privacy, House stood briefly, then closed the van door. Jensen reacted to the sound, turning around halfway and spotting him. The psychiatrist smiled at him, but he held the distance, although his posture was open. House debated for a moment, then walked toward him, and once he started that direction, Jensen came on to meet him halfway. He was still on the phone - talking to Mark, House realized - but they walked along together on his former track, and Jensen slowed his stride a little to match as House carefully stretched the kinks out of his leg.

"Yes, it is. . .a useful trip, though, even if it's been a hard one. I'll be back in New York tomorrow night. I think our plane gets into Newark around 5:00, and then I've got the drive, of course, so it will be well into the evening before I'm home. . . maybe Saturday. . . that sounds good. I need to lose a few games of chess to get back into routine. I was playing Dr. Wilson the other night, and I won. . . I will. . . all right, I'll see you this weekend. But thanks for calling, Big Brother. Bye." Jensen ended the call and pocketed his cell phone.

Back and forth they walked, silently, but it was a comfortable silence. House's stomach settled down, and the memories retreated. He was the first to speak. "What was it like growing up with a family?" he asked.

"Well, it certainly didn't mean we never had problems. We'd get on each other's nerves at times, and people all had their moods and bad days. I also had a brother who never seemed to do anything wrong. We were friends, and we're also bonded mentally beyond that, but he annoyed the hell out of me now and then."

House grinned. "I'll bet he knew exactly when you'd been doing something you shouldn't."

"Definitely. He knew _when_ I was doing something I shouldn't. Didn't even have to wait until he ran into me later. Mark took after my mother in temperament. She was always steady as she goes. Now, she _was_ stubborn. She had quiet digging your heels in down to an art form when she wanted. But I don't think I ever once saw her get mad. He was like that from day one, they said."

"Who do you take after most?" House asked, fascinated.

"My grandfather."

"The one whose desk you have in your office?"

"Yes. He was a lot more hot-headed. It took me quite a while to realize that, because I got to know the seasoned version that had been maturing for decades. But he spent a lot of time talking to me once I was about 11 and they moved close to us, and he said he was really a hell raiser in his young days and had to learn how to handle himself. Actually, he sounded a lot worse than I ever was as a kid. But it helped having him around. I think that's probably what it was most like growing up in a family. There was always someone _there_, available if needed. We didn't ever have to go through problems alone unless we were just being stubborn idiots at the time. Which did happen now and then. But overall, we supported each other, lived together, worried together, had good and bad times together. _That _was what it was like being in a family."

"You had good parents," House pointed out. Jensen nodded. "So what did this grandfather add to the mix? Wasn't he kind of redundant if you already had people there for you?"

"No. Everybody has their own individual flavor, and his matched mine very well. Sometimes, getting the same message from another source makes all the difference. My parents did try to talk to me about keeping my temper, but it never sank in all the way. Sometimes, too, the effect is cumulative, and bringing in one more person tips the scales and makes it finally click. I think it was both with me and my grandfather. We had chemistry, and never discount chemistry. There are some people you simply click with more than others, from childhood on. But also, while my parents did a lot for me, in my case, it helped to have a stabilizing influence beyond that. He added to everything they had tried to tell me, and he helped crystallize it over my teen years. Circumstances helped, too, of course."

They turned around. Jensen took a drink from his Coke, then continued. "It's all a mix, like a stew. Yes, it might have been a fine stew still with one less ingredient, but if you add the right extra ingredient, it really has an extra flavor to it that's delicious. Not that it was ever perfect. When I was starting to control my temper, I got too focused after that on _doing_ things, like my job eventually, and I think I set myself up for that fall I took when one of my patients committed suicide. I had learned to forgive others - that's a big part of family, too - but I never really learned before that to forgive myself, so when I made a mistake with a patient - or _thought_ I had - I simply couldn't deal with it. My grandfather was dead by then, and my father died during that bad time, but Paul - that's my therapist - really helped once I was willing to ask for it."

"What about your mother and Mark? You said family was about _being there_ for each other. So where were they when you were going through that?"

"They were there. You don't hear people until you're ready to, though. But they were still there, waiting, doing what they could and hoping I'd see it soon. Like I said, having a good family isn't the cure for all of life's problems." They turned around again at the end of their track and walked on for a while in silence. It was Jensen who broke the silence this time after a few minutes. "I made an error in judgment last week. That whole last session Tuesday night was a mistake."

"You tried to stop us anyway, and I . . ."

"We should have stopped _earlier_. Not there in the heat of it, but after that afternoon's session. I never should have gone on that night, but I was trying to give both of you some conditional closure and end on a better note than we had left it that afternoon. But we weren't going to get everything tied up nicely if we'd had a whole month of sessions at it. Instead of trying to find a tidy ending point, which was impossible, I should have just called a halt where we ended that afternoon. I think both of you would have agreed to that if I'd suggested it, not in the middle of a session but say after dinner, some neutral time when you both weren't already engaged and charged up at the moment. That was my mistake, and I apologize to you for that."

Jensen took a deep breath. "But I _do _not and _cannot _know if it made any difference at all in what happened to her. We'll find out more from her doctor, but even then, I'm sure it won't answer all questions. She was deliberately withholding relevant information from us, although I think she really believed what she was telling herself, that it wasn't a big deal. We'll never be able to totally work out where all the puzzle pieces fit together here."

House sighed. "I still . . ." He trailed off and hit the tip of his cane on the ground with a little extra frustration at the next step.

"I know," the psychiatrist said. "We can work through this, but it's going to take time."

House limped on, thinking. As they came up to the van on their next lap, he veered toward it, and Jensen followed him. Together, they climbed back in. Jensen picked back up the letters in progress and continued reading. House retrieved his game, but it was a little while before he turned it back on.


	55. Chapter 55

A/N: Sorry for the delays. Most of my writing time Friday and Saturday went to writing up a complete social history of Mom, childhood through the decline, all the highlights I could remember, for a new behavioral health referral. That kind of took it out of me for writing this weekend. She is in a bad spot mentally at the moment. Then I had dentist and then doctor appointments myself killing both Monday and Tuesday afternoons. There are a few things going on physically I've discovered just in the last two weeks, not life threatening at all but late complications of an eye injury 10 years ago, something needing fine tuning right now and monitoring ongoing. Take my - and House's - advice, and hie yourself to a doctor and be honest about symptoms if you have noticed any changes, even if you don't think it matters to anything.

I'll try to get up another chapter on Friday, which I have off from work to rest prior to a long weekend trip as I'm hitting the road Saturday at 3:00 a.m., back Sunday probably the same, with several hundred miles and a whole Saturday of fun in between. That trip will be pure recreation, and I'm looking forward to it. Thanks so much for the couple of people who have PMd today and asked if everything was all right. Warms me to know you care.

About parking at Walmart, actually, I highly recommend the Walmart parking lot as a great place to hang out and kill a few hours. I live 50 miles from the city that most of my musical activities are in, so I occasionally have gaps in between commitments in which I can't just go back home because it's not worth it in drive time and gas. Walmart is perfect. Provided that you always have a book with you, an item which I think goes right up there with jumper cables and first aid kits as part of being prepared, you can tuck into a slot, go in for a Coke or snack to "pay" them for the time, and then settle in to read for a couple of hours. It's an odd type of public privacy. Nobody looks twice at you, and there's enough traffic in and out, at least during daylight hours, that you aren't conspicuous. I am technically a customer if challenged, but I never have been. It might be harder in the wee small hours of the morning with less traffic.

Enjoy 55. Sorry so short but as much as I can fit in today, even though I had intended much more. I wanted to get something out there to reassure folks that the story is fine and not forgotten or stuck. Hopefully more Friday.

(H/C)

Mid afternoon found House and Jensen sitting in the waiting room at Blythe's doctor's office. Dr. Nichols had been in a practice of six internists, and the room was quite busy, phones ringing, patients and family members coming and going, nurses popping out to get the next person in line. House, sitting there restlessly fiddling with the head of his cane, was suddenly hit broadside by a wave of homesickness. Or worksickness, he corrected himself mentally. The medical environment was so familiar to him, but the location was wrong. All at once, he wanted to be back at PPTH working through puzzles that had correct answers and after which he could simply box them up and move on to the next. He hadn't been at work since December 23rd, the day he had left early to pick up Blythe that evening at the airport. It seemed literally, not just technically, a year ago. He shifted in his chair, and Jensen glanced subtly at him, watching him without obviously watching, which was one of the psychiatrist's talents. House turned away, but Jensen didn't ask. This wasn't the time.

Trying to distract himself, House started diagnosing the waiting room mentally. The woman across from him was worrying about something she was doing tonight, and she also was mentally deducting points from the office for being slightly behind. Her pointed looks at her watch clocked in at an average of three per magazine page, and her stiffly disapproving posture never came close to the back of the chair. Medically, she must be here just for a routine visit. Her worry was all schedule related, not test anticipation or reluctance over the appointment itself. She considered being here at all an inconvenience, and she looked healthy, even to House's eyes. The man two chairs down from her was having GI issues, possibly peptic ulcer. He had rubbed the precise location of his stomach a few times when he wasn't aware of it. Reflux, too; House could see his Adam's apple bobbing now and then from here.

Down the row House and Jensen were on sat an older man with CHF. No puzzle there, either. The man next to him was here for test followup. Unlike the first woman, he was specifically worried about the appointment, uneasy, gearing himself up for bad news. He also had recently lost weight, judging from his clothes. House noted his fingers, which were slightly stained and had reached for a no-longer-present pack of cigarettes by reflex a few times so far, not to smoke in here but just to pat it for comfort. Lung cancer, most likely. Like several of them, he had quit as soon as the scare came up. House mentally tagged him as an idiot. It wasn't like after decades of a pack a day that quitting when you got news of a questionable spot on an x-ray was going to just make the cancer reverse itself before the biopsy. It was already _there_ at that point.

He wondered how long Blythe's cancer had been there. Signet ring cell was aggressive, often silent early, and fast. Probably not too long, but if she had been up to date on her routine checkups, they might have caught subtle signs earlier.

Another couple entered the office and checked in, the woman lagging a little, the man literally urging her forward with his hand on her arm. Wife and husband, and though the appointment was for her, he had made it or had at least coerced it. "This is ridiculous, Russell," she protested as they sat down near House and Jensen after leaving the receptionist's desk. "I'm fine. The reason I'm tired is that we had so much to do the last month with getting ready for all the family visiting for Christmas."

House came to attention, looking at her keenly as her husband hovered even while sitting down, his body tilted toward her chair as if he were ready to physically protect her from whatever unknown enemy, though the droop of his shoulders proclaimed that he knew how powerless he was in that battle. "Margie, just tell the doctor about it. Tell him about _anything_. Please. I know there's more to it than you're admitting."

Her hand fluttered as if trying to push his concern away. "You're just imagining things, dear."

House leaned across Jensen, looking at her keenly - so keenly that she and her husband both felt the blue lasers and turned. His eyes swept her head to toe like a human MRI machine. "What about exercise intolerance? Do you have to stop in the middle of things?"

The woman stared at him. "Who are _you_?" she asked, slightly defensively. House, clad today in a Rolling Stones sweat shirt as well as tennis shoes and jeans and with the cane alongside, looked far more like a patient than any sort of expert.

Russell, on the other hand, grasped eagerly for any backup. "She _has_ had to stop in the middle of things the last few weeks. She tried to make it look like just talking with family for a minute, but she . . ."

"We had a house full of company. Of _course_ I kept stopping in the middle of things to . . ."

House pulled out his wallet and offered a card across the gap to the couple. "I'm Dr. Gregory House, Department of Diagnostic Medicine, Princeton, New Jersey."

"Dr. Gregory House," Russell repeated thoughtfully. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"Probably on the news. Last summer, trial of Patrick Chandler for child abuse," House snapped impatiently. Several heads in addition to those two jerked up around the waiting room, but House didn't notice. "I _do_ know what I'm talking about medically. You could be in danger of dying. Don't let the next family get-together be at your funeral." She stared at him, shocked.

The receptionist had come out from behind her desk. "Dr. House, why don't you come on back? I just called the nurse, and we'll let you wait in Dr. Nichols' office for . . ."

"Not until I say this," he insisted. He turned to the husband. "Some of her symptoms lately include fatigue, slight shortness of breath, and tension through the neck and shoulders. I don't think she's sleeping as well, either. She could be in danger of a heart attack. She needs a full workup immediately, including EKG and cardiac studies. Don't let her dodge out of this. You need to get moving on this _today_. There are other possibilities, but rule out cardiac first."

"Dr. House?" The nurse called from the door. House didn't even look up, and she walked over. "Dr. House, Dr. Nichols is almost ready to see you."

House ignored her. "Read my lips: You could _die_," he said. Margie looked from his blazing, intense sincerity to the card and back up, shaken. "Tell the doctor the truth."

"Dr. House." The nurse touched him on the arm, and he shook her off. She appealed to Jensen by look, but Jensen hadn't budged from his seat nor made any move at any point to intervene.

"I . . . it doesn't seem like much," Margie protested, but the protest had a lot less starch than it had a few minutes ago.

"You are _not_ a doctor. News flash: Someone who went through medical school might actually know more about how your body works than you do."

"Thank you," Russell put in. "I've been trying to tell her that."

Dr. Nichols himself appeared at the doorway. "Dr. House? I'm sorry for the delay. Come on back."

House looked from the woman to her husband, her shaken and him grateful, and finally broke the gaze and stood. Abruptly, he realized that they had an audience, every head in the waiting room turned their direction. He flinched, then straightened as Jensen stood up beside him. "Remember that, all of you. You are not doctors. Tell the truth and stop being idiots; it makes it so much easier for us to treat you." He turned away, and as he passed the man awaiting test results, he added softly, "And you should have quit 30 years ago."

Dr. Nichols, House, and Jensen disappeared through the door into the warren of offices and exam rooms. The receptionist gave a quick, slightly embarrassed apology and then returned to her desk, but it was a few minutes before the low hum of waiting room conversation restarted and other heads bent once more to their magazines.


	56. Chapter 56

A/N: Sorry no Friday chapter. Never tell the universe you have a day off scheduled; it takes it as a challenge. But Saturday was a wonderful break from everything for at least one day.

Possibly more later today or tomorrow if not, depending on work flow. Work usually is a bit irregular getting into rhythm on Mondays and has unpredictable gaps. We will return to House and Jensen promptly, and Jensen will finish reading the letters soon, but I thought I'd go ahead and give you this little scene this morning to enjoy while you're waiting for the medical and psych part.

(H/C)

Soft footsteps approached with the bubbling rhythm of childhood, unable to keep a sedate pace even while trying to be quiet. Thomas surfaced from sleep quickly, his mind immediately on line. The hotel recliner was unfamiliar if comfortable beneath him, but the sound of Rachel trying to sneak up on him took him straight back across the decades, reviving a memory that had slept for several years. He had been back with his family for a week off in between two assignments, and on the first day, still worn out from the mission he'd just come off of, he had been taking an afternoon nap in the living room of their current rental house. Tim, a 3-year-old package of irrepressible lively humor, had woken up from his own nap and sneaked out into the living room, escaping Emily's notice briefly to stalk his father. He, too, had never quite been able to walk flat footed anywhere, inserting grace notes into his step if he wasn't actually running. At least, he never had up until the horses, which steadied all of his movements.

Thomas half opened one eye and peered beneath the lid. Rachel was creeping up in a comical version of tip-toeing from the girls' bedroom. No sign of Marina or Abby. Lisa was presumably still in the other bedroom asleep herself, and Wilson had fallen half over on the couch in that awkward posture you wind up in if you had been sitting up straight thinking and were ambushed by sleep unawares. Thomas gave an inner wince at the thought of what the other man's neck and back would feel like once he woke.

Rachel was trying so hard to be quiet that she was actually making more noise doing it. Thomas let his eye close all the way again and surrendered to the memory of long ago, doing the same thing now that he had then with Tim. He gave a soft stage snore. Rachel giggled, a sound that warmed him to the core. She crept a little closer. Thomas snored again, and unexpectedly, Wilson entered the act, snoring himself. Rachel nearly went into convulsions trying to keep her hilarity quiet at that; Thomas heard her feet trip slightly, and the giggle was threatening to erupt into full laughter. Thomas gave another snore, and Wilson repeated it. Curious, Thomas opened one eye to a slit again and looked over. The oncologist was still completely out with head askew and breathing deep and regular; he, at least, wasn't playing. Another snore from the recliner was echoed from the couch. Rachel was almost up to them now, and Thomas watched surreptitiously as she looked from him to Wilson, debated, then turned to him, reaching out toward his face curiously.

Just as Emily had years ago, so Marina now disrupted their game. "Rachel!" she whispered firmly, exiting the bedroom with a confident if quiet step. "Come back here!" Abby padded after her.

Rachel darted around the far side of the chair, trying to hide behind him, and Thomas opened both eyes all the way and sat up a little, yawning. "What time is it?" He looked at his watch, answering his own question. He had been asleep for almost two hours. He felt better for it, though still too tired after the two disrupted nights. He shifted his foot subtly, testing, and the stab of pain would have woken him up if he hadn't already been. He'd definitely be missing his morning walk for a few more days while that bruise healed.

Marina abandoned quiet pursuit for apology. "I'm so sorry. I was trying to keep them occupied, but she got away from me while I had Abby in the bathroom."

"It's okay. I had a very good nap anyway." He looked over at Rachel, standing at the side of his chair with impish eyes. She did remind him, in personality though not in looks, of Tim.

Only she wasn't Tim, and it wasn't years ago, and this current reality would end tomorrow, and he would go back home alone to the big, empty house. He seized her with an urgency that surprised her, lifting her over the arm of the chair, hugging her fiercely. Rachel, willing enough even if caught off guard, hugged him back, and Wilson gave a disrupted final snore and stirred, coming stiffly upright on the couch.

"What time is it?" He looked around the four of them a little sheepishly, caught red-napped. He rubbed at his neck and shoulder, trying to work the kink out.

"It's 3:30," Thomas told him. He wondered what Greg and Jensen were doing right now; one of the appointments, he thought. He also wondered what else they had been doing today and hoped it was helping.

Rachel, secure in Thomas' arms, grinned at Wilson. "Wilson sleepyhead!" she taunted. She then gave a dramatic snore, fortissimo. Abby thought this was hilarious and trotted over to join the group, her golden laughter filling the room.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I did _not_ sound like that," he insisted.

"Did, too." Rachel snored again, even louder, and Abby laughed again.

Marina smiled. "I'd better go wake up Dr. Cuddy. She won't want to miss things now that the rest of us are awake."

Thomas' amusement at the scene with the girls and Wilson faded. No, Lisa wouldn't want to miss things, because she, like he, knew that the clock was running out on them at the moment. Whatever the future might hold, the present was almost over. He sighed softly. Rachel, leaning companionably back against him, was still mocking Wilson and didn't notice, but Abby did. Thomas felt a soft, tentative poke on his arm and looked over into his father's eyes. "You okay?" Abby asked.

He smiled at her. "I'm fine, Abby." Those eyes held their focus, curious, watching him. She didn't look away until her mother, briskly sheepish herself at being the last one up, emerged from the bedroom, and then Abby abandoned analysis of the world temporarily and turned and ran to her to be swooped up in a hug. Rachel slid down to go greet her mother herself and then to find the stuffed Ember, and the routine, precious afternoon with the girls resumed.


	57. Chapter 57

A/N: On to the appointment. We are getting very close to what is probably my favorite chapter out of this whole story, the peak of my many favorite ones. If writing schedule pans out from mentally onto paper undisrupted (no guarantees there, as you well know!), that one should be three chapters out from here.

Thanks again for the reviews. It's encouraging to know that readers are still with me on this road, which has been far longer than I originally guessed when I posted my first House story, Pranks. It keeps going for at least two subsequent stories beyond here and glimmers of a third and will run on for as long as the muse keeps going with it. She loves the Thomas line, which is one that caught me as off-guard in mentally working out Verdict as it caught the readers. So I don't think the end is anywhere in sight.

Do remember, as one reviewer so eloquently put it, that the moment we are in is all we are really guaranteed, and enjoy times with your family and friends. Last week, almost coinciding with me having to write up the complete history for the new referral for Mom, also marked her birthday, a bittersweet occasion anymore. She is still in her 60s, in spite of already being fully immersed in hallucinations, delusions, occasional violence, and extreme loss of memory and emotional control. Far too young for the advanced state she's in, an opinion expressed often by her medical personnel. Appreciate the time you have with your people. You never know when it will end, whether mentally or physically.

On to 57. Enjoy! Next chapter is a very intense session with House and Jensen.

(H/C)

House was still grumbling - far from under his breath - as he and Jensen followed Dr. Nichols through the back halls to the office, and his limping path left a wake of startled medical staff and patients staring after him. "Idiots. 90% of patients at least are idiots, and more than that liars. It hasn't occurred to them that hey, we might actually medically _need_ some of this information they aren't sharing. Course, there are two sides to that coin. Plenty of doctors are incompetent idiots, too. I've known several who might as well have gotten their license from a box of Cracker Jacks for all the good they did with it. So then you wind up with lying idiots being diagnosed by arrogant imbeciles. That's a good bit of the medical community in a nutshell."

Dr. Nichols arrived at his office, gestured the two other men in, and firmly closed the door. He walked around his desk to his chair, unable to resist a quick, defensive look at his own diplomas proudly displayed on the wall. He sat down, thinking that he might well prefer one of those lying idiot patients himself to this upcoming conversation. Yes, he, too, had seen his share over the years; House's statistics might be somewhat exaggerated, but the observation wasn't without grounds. Unfortunately, that total included the mother of the eccentric and volatile genius now across the desk from him.

"First of all, I am very sorry about your mother's death, Dr. House," he started. "You have my deepest sympathy."

The sting of the once-hated phrase was far less than before, but it still grated a little. Nichols, House realized, hadn't read every detail he could find in the media on the Chandler trial; he didn't know to avoid it. House wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or comforted by that fact. Nichols clearly _was_ aware of his professional reputation. The man was tense, gearing up to endure cross-examination himself. Pure nerves or guilt? "Too bad your sympathy has to come after her death. You could have tried to prevent it." House went straight for large-caliber guns for his first shot. Might as well get the nerves vs. guilt question investigated as soon as possible.

Nichols flinched. Jensen annoyingly entered the field, his voice polite and steady, driving toward a touchy point as if he were talking about no more than the weather. Not a trace here of the once hot-headed child or the therapist who had admitted that his own error had possibly contributed in part to Blythe's death. He was just now as House had so often seen him, a rock, something to be counted on, calming down the room just by being in it. "What was the date of her appointment with you in December?"

Nichols turned eagerly toward him. He had no idea who this man was, and right now, he didn't care. "December 5th," he replied.

"December 5th." Jensen rolled the date around as if tasting it, then looked over to House. "December 5th. That was before your idea."

House, about to take over the questioning again, came to attention, distracted momentarily. Jensen was right. Well, not entirely right. House had been thinking of setting up those delve-into-the-past conversations with his mother for a month or two, but he definitely had not proposed it to Jensen or mentioned it to his mother before the second week in December. Whatever Blythe's motives in putting off tests, they hadn't included finally getting the chance to talk openly with her son. The only thing scheduled as of December 5th had been a simple family visit for Christmas. He considered the point, then filed it for later analysis, turning back to Nichols. "What were her symptoms?" he demanded.

Nichols opened the chart on his desk, although he had already looked this up several times. "She complained of fatigue and also vague GI and abdominal discomfort. She specifically said that antacids weren't working very well, and that was why she made the appointment. She wanted a prescription for something stronger so she would have it on her upcoming Christmas trip to visit you."

Remembering that bottle of Pepto in the suitcase, House clenched the head of his cane so tightly that his fingers hurt. "Didn't you try to tell her how deceptive GI symptoms can be?"

"_Yes_." Nichols couldn't help some added emphasis himself there. "She was only scheduled for a 15-minute appointment that day, although she was overdue for a full physical. But I spent well over twice that with her. I asked her for more details, and I told her specifically that it sounded more cardiac to me, especially since OTC meds made no difference for her. I wanted to do an immediate EKG that day, possibly even send her to the ER. I was _very_ explicit about what it could mean. But the further I went, the more she locked into insisting nothing was really wrong." He sighed and spread his hands helplessly. "I couldn't take her hostage and send her over to the hospital, Dr. House. If the patient insists on ignoring advice, there's not much you can do."

House realized that his hands were going numb and forced his fingers to loosen up on the cane. "You didn't give her a prescription for a stronger GI med, did you?" None had been in her suitcase.

"No. She was a little annoyed at me about that, since it was the whole reason she came for the visit. I did refill her Norvasc; it had been expired for four months." House and Jensen gave a mutual sigh.

"What was her BP in the office that day?" House asked.

"172/89. She said it was only up because I wasn't listening to her and that it had been doing better lately. I did encourage her strongly to at least get back on the Norvasc."

"She had that with her in Princeton," House said softly.

"I also gave her a prescription for sublingual nitroglycerin tablets."

House came straight up in the chair. "She _didn't_ have those with her."

"She was very resistant to the idea because she didn't think anything was wrong with her heart at all. I urged her to at least fill that and keep it always with her until more testing in January. She finally took that prescription along with the other one, but I wouldn't be surprised if she never filled it."

House was silent. Jensen gave him a moment and then stepped smoothly into the gap. "She did agree to testing after her Christmas trip?"

"Yes. She would have had a full physical tomorrow morning, and I actually already had set up a stress test at the hospital tomorrow afternoon as well as an abdominal ultrasound afterwards just to check for noncardiac causes. Talking her into that wasn't easy, but she finally accepted it provided it would be after the trip was over."

House shook his head. "But we weren't _doing_ anything. Not that she knew about on the 5th. It was just a routine Christmas with me and the kids." Although how many of those had there been in Blythe's lifetime?

"A physical tomorrow morning," Jensen repeated thoughtfully. "Judging from your waiting room, you're booked up more than just a month out for those."

Nichols nodded. "It was an add-on appointment. I told the secretary to add her as as soon as she possibly could once I was back in town." Anticipating House's next objection, he continued quickly. "And I did suggest seeing one of my colleagues before that, even, just as soon as she got back from Princeton. She refused. Her exact words were that it was bad enough to go through all this nonsense with one doctor without involving two."

House's hands tightened up on the cane again. Damn it, he should have asked her outright about her health. But she probably would have lied to him. Probably wouldn't have considered it a lie, as her shrink had said, because she actually believed it. Nothing serious could be wrong. "She had cancer, too," he said abruptly. "They found that on autopsy, even though it was a heart attack that killed her. Signet ring cell, already with carcinomatosis throughout the abdomen."

"Damn. Would have caught that on ultrasound, but it probably was already too advanced. That one is fast, isn't it?" House nodded. Nichols looked down at the chart. "She had lost three pounds since the last recorded weight. Not enough to notice."

"Probably a pound or two more than that," House countered. "She would have been wearing winter clothes on December 5th. Unless the last appointment was winter, too."

"Last appointment before that was August of the previous year. That's when I gave her a year worth of refills on the Norvasc, and she had been out of it since August of this last year."

"You sent her reminder letters and such, of course," Jensen guessed.

"Yes. We'd tried to get her in. I pushed her a little bit about being overdue when she came in on the 5th, and she said she'd just been too busy to get down to it."

House was thinking at full speed. "It would have been more than three pounds, then, given the seasonal switch. Still within routine fluctuations. Did she mention any problems eating?"

"No. She kept describing this as GI discomfort, but it sounded like two different things to me even then. Lower abdominal generalized pain, no central focus that she would admit to. I did palpate her abdomen on exam that day. Nothing I could find. Then she said there were upper GI symptoms which were periodic, but those didn't seem to be associated with eating. She didn't admit to any change in appetite. She was more annoyed than anything that OTC meds weren't working, and she thought all she needed was a prescription GI drug to fix her right up."

"And of course, she wouldn't have had a good read on exercise intolerance, because she didn't really exercise since her accident because of the balance issues," Jensen said.

"Right. I did ask her, but she hadn't noticed anything. All of her walking was done slowly with breaks anyway. She was a little tired; I had to pry that much out of her. The stress test for tomorrow was going to be chemical, not through exercise."

"I had figured that out," House snapped, but he sounded half distracted now.

Nichols looked over at his diplomas again. "Dr. House, I did absolutely everything I could trying to talk her into testing that day. I told her it could be life threatening. She wouldn't budge."

House was silent for a minute, then his eyes sharpened up on the chart. "I want her chart," he demanded.

Nichols reached for a thick envelope to one side. "The office manager copied everything for you this morning. There are all the records from our office, plus what was sent over from her prior internist a few years ago when he retired." He slid the envelope across the desk, and House picked it up.

Jensen came to his feet. "Let's go," he suggested gently, knowing that once House got buried in the chart, he wouldn't come up for air for a while. But he wouldn't have asked for it unless he were finished with direct questions. House slowly stood. "We appreciate your time," Jensen said.

Nichols shook his hand but didn't even think about trying it with House. "I am very sorry about what happened," he said. "I wish I could have prevented it, but she would not listen."

"We understand," Jensen told him. The two left the office. Nichols stayed at his desk for a few minutes, reading the notes from that last appointment once more, replaying it in his mind. He still couldn't think of anything else he might have done. As House had said, patients were often idiots. With a sigh, he stood up and headed for his next appointment.

(H/C)

Jensen drove as they left Nichols' office, and House hadn't challenged it when the psychiatrist firmly captured the keys as he pulled them out. Before the van even left the parking lot, House had opened the envelope of medical records and plunged in. Jensen parked at another Walmart that they had passed not far away from the office, and he retrieved the letters from the back seat and resumed his own assignment. For the first time all day, the van was as silent as a classroom during finals, no electronic beeps, no shifting, just palpable concentration.

House was used to reading charts, and he was an old hand at quickly pulling out relevant information. He went through Blythe's more slowly than usual, but he still covered it quickly. As brilliant as he was at medicine, he saw no red flags as he read, nothing except the long gap between her prior appointment and that one. He finished the chart finally, reread the notes from that last appointment five times, and then let the pages drop into his lap and just stared through the windshield. Abruptly, the silence pressed in on him, not even a rustle of papers from the adjacent seat, and he looked over. Jensen had the letters reboxed neatly and the flaps closed; he was sitting there watching House. He had actually been done for over twenty minutes, although House hadn't realized it.

"Well?" House demanded, his tone tight. His muscles all tensed up, preparing for the verdict, and his leg, as usual, led the chorus. He forced himself not to drop a hand to his thigh to rub it, not in front of Jensen, who couldn't possibly have missed that physical cue.

Jensen put the box on the back seat behind them and opened the door. "Let's take a break first before we get into it," he said.

"No way," House insisted. "I want your immediate reaction; that's the best one. If you need more time to deliberate it, there must be gray areas there after all, things that _he_ could have picked up on, too."

Jensen slid out of the van and looked back across at House as he stood just outside. "No," he said firmly, "there isn't enough there to have worked it out from the letters alone. _In those circumstances_, I would have missed it, too. So, now that I've said that, shall we head on back to the hotel for an evening with everybody, or do you want to talk first?"

House slowly looked away. Cursing softly, he opened the passenger's door and carefully extricated himself from the van, and Jensen stood patiently until he was out and then started off at a gentle leg-stretching pace, the two of them mutually working out some of the physical kinks, both aware of the mental knots still waiting.


	58. Chapter 58

They rearranged the van positions before diving into a full session. House wound up in the very back seat, the longest one, sitting propped against the side with his legs stretched out and two new heat patches working on his thigh. He had applied them in a stall in the restroom inside Walmart, but then he had decided reluctantly as they exited that even with the patches, he'd better not launch into this session sitting in the front of the van and half twisted sideways to face Jensen. There would be plenty of tension already without adding more from posture, and his leg wasn't liking this day, even with regular stretch breaks. At least it wasn't that cold, quite nice for January, but the strain of today's appointments and of being a spectator on the letters had headed straight to his thigh as usual, annoying him further. Jensen would put the pieces together, but he suspected that the psychiatrist already had a good idea how his leg felt just now anyway.

Sure enough, Jensen had no comment and not even any silent analysis when House opened the sliding door without explanation and climbed to the back. The psychiatrist simply unfastened the car seats, piled them in the passenger's front, and installed himself in the middle seat after closing the door. Propped up against the opposite side with his own legs stretched out along the seat, he was almost directly facing House now, only the back of the seat between them, and neither of them having to twist for eye contact.

House jumped straight to challenge, seizing the psychiatrist's statement as if almost twenty minutes hadn't passed between. "You said there wasn't enough from the letters _alone_. But Thornton had more than just the letters."

"Yes, he did," Jensen agreed. "He had those ten brief visits over the course of your entire childhood, but you as well as John were deliberately trying to hide things from him on those."

House shuddered slightly. "At least I was after the one when I asked him to get us out of there." That had been when he decided that his instincts were wrong and that the man didn't like him or have any interest in him after all, in fact believed that his hell hole of a life was where he belonged.

"Which visit was that?" Jensen asked. "How many?"

House, caught unprepared there, had to take a moment to count. "The third one," he said. "He visited a few weeks after my fourth birthday. That was the first time I'd seen him. And he . . ." He trailed off. He still remembered the confused 4-year-old impressions of someone who, even on a 1-day visit, seemed genuinely interested in him, thinking he was somebody special, even complimenting him on a few things that young Greg had thought weren't anything remarkable at all. Nobody else in his world had been like that. It was the difference between the sun and the stars, hitting him powerfully even then. His mother had praised him for routine things like dressing himself, but she seemed to miss early thought processes and world analysis that Thornton had noticed at once.

Jensen gave House a moment, and he continued. "He came back a little over a year later. Then the time when I was six, and that's when I asked him. That was a week after the glue." He shivered again, started to reach for his thigh, and changed course halfway, fingering his wedding ring. Its solid reality, its perfect unbrokenness steadied him. "After that, it was two years before the next visit; that was the one with the broken lamp. He stretched it out a little more from then on after I asked him for help."

"Each of those three was one day?" Jensen asked.

"Yes."

"So three days of direct observation. He already had dozens of letters by then. It's not much, especially given that John was deliberately misleading him, and you even on those first visits were already trying to hide it from the world. Later, you were specifically angry at him, but even early on, you knew you couldn't be open with people as a general rule. Even when you asked him for help, you didn't come outright and say what your life was like."

"I _couldn't,_" House snapped. His breathing was picking up a little.

"I know," Jensen said, his voice soothing. House couldn't help responding to it by this point; they had too many emotionally touchy miles in these sessions behind them. "Because of the threat against your mother, you had to conceal things. I know that. But Thornton didn't." House didn't reply, and Jensen left that point for a related one. "You said something inaccurate a minute ago."

House couldn't help taking the bait there. "What?"

"You said it was the first time you had seen Thornton when you were four. Actually, it was only the first time you remembered meeting him."

"Technicality," House grumbled.

"No, it isn't. From your point of view, there's nothing prior to that in your history with him. From _his_, on the other hand, he had two solid years of direct observation. He was there during your mother's pregnancy and during your first year. He saw that himself, not in letters. He saw John being proud of you." House did reach for his thigh there, all the shields going up. The fact that John had actually loved him at first had been a very difficult bite to swallow and had dominated their sessions recently before the Christmas disaster. "I know that's very hard for you. We'll get back to working through those early memories. But that _is_ what Thornton saw, directly, with his own eyes. And _that_, I think, is the foundation for the whole tragedy of him missing it. Without that to build on, even with your mother's letters misleading him, I think he would have noticed little clues more on his visits. He said to me himself that night in the park that it's hard to get to thinking about someone one way, with substantial evidence there, and suddenly flip it 180 degrees and wonder what if everything actually was opposite to that."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure he had excuses," House said.

"No, he admitted himself that it wasn't an excuse. It was background, but he wasn't claiming it as an excuse. He feels _horrible_ about missing it all. He would do anything to take that back. But he can't. All he can do is try to be there now."

"Well, _that_ he's succeeding in. Can't turn around the last week without banging into him."

"Why?" Jensen asked. "What was the catalyst for this trip with us all being together?" House looked away. "Your mother's death. If he was able to cause that in order to let him get some time with his family, he's not simply a good plotter; he's God, and a very petty and cruel version at that."

"He might be _using_ it, without causing it," House persisted.

"Then why haven't you asked him to leave?" Jensen changed tracks quickly, wanting House to think about that but not get defiant on it. "Those letters are . . ." He paused long enough to be sure he had House's full attention. "They are totally deceptive. There is _nothing_ there beyond a few little moments that could be any child and that she herself brushes off. Like I said, I would have been fooled myself, especially if I had the background of those two good years in person." Even focused intently on his patient right now, Jensen was warmed by the fact that House had accepted his analysis of the letters. He had claimed additional information available to Thornton, but he had not suggested that Jensen had misread them.

The next topic was likely to be even more touchy, though. The psychiatrist paused for a drink from his current bottled water, and House's eyes narrowed. "What? You're stalling."

"I was thinking during those appointments today, especially the last one. The letters fit right in with her attitude toward her own health. Your mother had an incredible knack through life for believing what she wanted to. To her, like Dr. Sauer said, it wasn't even a lie. She could _not_ accept at the moment that anything was truly wrong."

"_Why_?" House burst out. "What was so important about Christmas? She didn't even know about those conversations then, and Nichols said she was still locked in on it."

"I'm frustrated about this, too," Jensen assured him. "She should have mentioned it. She _definitely _should have told us when the idea of those sessions came up. But it was a genuine family activity, and most of her - her delusions, through her adult history, have involved actually having a happy family. That was what she always wanted in life, I think. Right now, finally, she had it in reality. Not a perfect family, but nobody gets that. She did have a happy one."

"But she could _still_ have had it. Hell, she might even have been able to get things fixed if they could do just cath and angio instead of CABG, and she _still_ could have come for Christmas, no schedule revision required." He abruptly remembered the cancer. That could not have been fixed quickly in the cath lab. He sighed. "Do you think she knew subconsciously that it _was_ major, that this might be her last Christmas?"

"I don't know. The two big options here are pure denial or some sort of punishing herself for the past, but I don't think she would have involved you in punishing herself. Probably denial is the biggest part, but there is one thing that struck me. Was that letter to you written back during the trial like I guessed?" House nodded. "The will was dated a few years ago, shortly after her accident."

The light dawned, a point he himself had missed in the emotional impact. "The will was on top of the letter in the piano bench, even though it was older."

"She either took out the will alone later or took out both of them to reread and then replaced the sealed envelope for the letter. Now we don't _know_ that that was after this doctor's appointment, but at some point since writing that letter, I think she had been thinking of her own mortality and just wanted to reassure herself that everything was arranged."

House clenched his fingers and jumped when his thigh protested. He made himself let go. "She was thinking about it, even if hypothetically, but she _still_ couldn't have told us?" He felt tears welling up and blinked them back, switching into anger. "Damn it, Mom!"

Jensen nodded. "She was aware of the chance on some level. But she still never said a word, probably denied it to herself most of the time. And _that's_ why there's nothing we could have done here. She wasn't willing to be helped. Yes, there were other mistakes, but bottom line, she wasn't willing to be helped, and without that, we couldn't have helped her. She chose not to face it, right up until the end when she was feeling unwell and could have walked down the hall to alert two doctors but went to bed instead. It wasn't your fault, Dr. House." House was staring at the far side of the van, not at Jensen, but he looked thoughtful. "And even if we had helped her," Jensen went on carefully, "even if she had accepted her doctor's advice, talked to us, gone for a catheterization, she still had cancer, and the ME thought she was already terminal. Even without us making mistakes or without her denying things, this probably _was_ her last Christmas all along. Nothing would have changed that."

House had started fiddling with his cane, playing it like a piano. As usual when getting backed into an emotional corner, he jumped tracks. "Those letters," he said. "There's really _nothing_ there?"

The psychiatrist sighed. "No. They could be pure fiction. She missed it. And she had far more opportunity to see it than your father did." House flinched at the title. "In fact," Jensen went on, "I really think you don't need to read those letters ever. Not even one at a time, spaced out through sessions like I suggested this morning. The only thing it would accomplish is wiping out the positive memories; the emotional hit from them would be too large for you. And that would leave you with an inaccurate picture, too, because there _were_ positive memories. You've mentioned some of them. She was in total denial, and she missed an enormous amount in your childhood, but she also did love you, and there were good moments. Don't take those away from yourself. If you can just accept the fact that there weren't clues in the letters without seeing every detail eventually for yourself, that would be better. Once in a while, Dr. House, it's okay to leave something buried in the past and not dig it up." Jensen looked over at the box, flaps neatly folded. "There would be only more pain here for you with no benefit."

House stared at the far side of the van, thinking. When he finally spoke, it was on a different subject. "Lisa asked me this morning why I didn't at least call him Thomas."

"Did you tell her?" Jensen asked.

"Yes."

"Well done. She understood it, too, didn't she?" House nodded. "It's a valid reason. That's something you're going to have to work out with him but probably down the road. This last week has had far too much happening all at once for you. It's okay to feel overwhelmed by that. Thornton understands that. He knows this is hard on you."

"_He's_ the one who sent me that one letter in the first place," House snapped, the old anger rearing its head again.

"He probably considers that a mistake now. He's as susceptible to them as the rest of us. But he was desperate to have you believe him about the music. And if he hadn't brought them up, when your mother, I assume, mentioned them in her letter, you would have attacked him immediately for withholding information."

"Yeah." House had thought that already yesterday. "I still can't believe he kept them all these years." He squirmed in the seat. "But I have a right to be cautious with him. I have to think of the girls."

"Yes, you do. But I think you're trusting him more with them by now than you're trusting him with yourself. You left him there today."

"With Cuddy and Wilson both supervising. Plus Marina. That wasn't a safety risk."

"How many security guards would you want there if John were with them?" Jensen asked.

The thought of John in the same room with his daughters almost literally made House feel sick, and he swallowed a few times. "Besides," he said, trying to distract himself, "I could hardly toss him back out of the suite when he looked so tired I wasn't sure he could walk down to his room."

"He's an old man," Jensen agreed. "In good shape to all appearances and obviously still active, but he is 75, and he'd had a very tough night."

"I thought he'd sleep on the planes. I didn't expect him to look _that_ bad."

Jensen shook his head. "I imagine he had a hard time getting to sleep even in his own bed for a few hours. He really cares about you, Dr. House. He didn't surprise me at all this morning by how he looked, and I'm sure he didn't Dr. Cuddy either. He would have been worrying every minute of that trip."

House shifted again. "I . . . this is too much at once."

"Yes, it is. It's all right to take time with it. This is a _huge_ issue for you, and it should be. I don't think you could make an immediate final decision on this yet, and that's understandable. But just let your mother teach you one last thing as we do go on. Life is uncertain."

"I learned that a long time ago," House snapped. "Like when I was three."

"I know." The deep sadness, not pity but sadness, in Jensen's voice made him meet the psychiatrist's eyes again. "Your girls won't have to learn it like you did. They do have a happy family. Remember what Dr. Sauer said, too. Your mother was happy right now."

"I still wish she'd talked to us."

"So do I." House drifted off into thought again, doing a differential on the far side of the van, and Jensen left him alone. Instead, he analyzed the other man's posture, his hand protectively on his leg, the chiseled lines of his face. House was hurting, physically as well as mentally, but he wasn't quite yet at the end of his rope for the day. He was still very tense, too. He hadn't let go fully of even some of what he could during this trip. Today had been an odd catharsis for Jensen, the letters and appointments backing up his own self-analysis from yesterday, but House hadn't reached that point yet. Finally, House looked at his watch, and Jensen could almost see him thinking about the others back at the hotel. "For right now," Jensen asked, "what do you want to do?"

House sighed, remembering his thought from the waiting room. "I want to go back home," he said. "I want to get back into work again, doing what I know."

"So do I." He waited, hopeful but letting House work it out.

House drummed his fingers on his cane again, then spoke slowly, softly. "But I don't think I'm quite ready to yet."


	59. Chapter 59

A/N: The scene beginning at the end of this chapter and extending through the next entire chapter is it, my top favorite in the story. This is the peak of H&F for me, and I've loved it since the idea for this scene first came up, which was very shortly after all those letters were introduced into the mix of things months ago during Legacy. Enjoy 58, and hopefully won't be long to 59.

(H/C)

Jensen felt a surge of pure pride in House. He had come so far since starting therapy. "What else do you need to do first?" he asked.

House shifted again, looking away. "Give me some help here," he asked, but Jensen heard the shielded dodge. House knew and just was afraid to put it into words.

"I can't. I agree with the assessment, and I'm glad you can see that, but I could easily be wrong about what needs doing from here. That's so personal; you have a better idea yourself of where things stand, what needs to be pushed and what needs more time. Trust your instincts. They're quite good ones."

"Thanks a lot," House grumbled. Suddenly feeling pinned in at the back of the van, as much by circumstances as physically, he slowly moved his legs down from the seat, using his hand to help the right one. "Let's take a walk for a few minutes."

"Okay." Jensen got up with considerably more agility and opened the sliding door. He exited the van and waited for House to join him.

House's thoughts were galloping like that damned horse of Thornton's as he walked. His leg was hurting, but his mind was almost hurting more at the moment. Oddly, it was Abby who had crystalized things for him. He imagined returning to the hotel and facing her perceptive, trusting eyes as she asked him, "You okay?"

No, he wasn't yet. There were several things that would take time, as Jensen had said, but there were also a few that needed to be confronted here and shouldn't be part of his luggage back to Princeton. He knew at least one thing that he still definitely needed to do before leaving Lexington, and the thought scared the hell out of him. Far easier to avoid it, but then he would have to lie to his family. Besides, he was finally, through hard experience, learning that things he simply tried to hide the impact of from others and himself and ignore had a habit of boiling over eventually and scalding his loved ones right along with him.

Jensen walked along easily beside him, and House suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude toward the psychiatrist. He had been here all day, had taken a very difficult assignment without hesitation, and had been with him in the appointments, keeping things grounded. Today would have been far more traumatic alone, and House couldn't imagine any better companion in facing these specific obstacles. Even now, Jensen was waiting but not pushing, not even worrying at the point silently, simply being there. House, who had trouble finding a personal off switch, had always admired the psychiatrist's ability to put things on hold for periods and then pick them back up later without impatience.

Jensen. House's stride caught for half a step as the idea struck him. Jensen looked over at him curiously but didn't ask, and House's mind dropped into even another gear, sorting, holding things up next to each other and considering the fit. Finally, he broke the silence. "So you pushed limits at times when you were a kid."

"Yes. I was hardly a juvenile delinquent, but I wasn't easy, either. Between me and Mark, I was definitely the one who gave my parents a run for their money."

House debated, then stopped and turned, facing the other man directly. "How would you feel about running the chance of getting arrested?"

"Depends on what kind of potential charge we're talking about," Jensen replied.

House started to outline his idea.

(H/C)

Cuddy came back from checking the bedroom. "They're sound asleep," she reported. She couldn't help a quick look at her watch as she sat down on the couch, and the other three adults all copied it immediately. It was now 8:00. House had checked in twice more since the community afternoon nap, and the last time, he had told her that they would probably be a few more hours, maybe even pushing 10:00, before they got back.

Wilson switched into brisk encouragement mode. "Remember, Cuddy, he's got Jensen with him."

"I know." It was a comforting thought, but the longer this went on, the more she wondered. His tone the last call had been different, too. He and Jensen had been having a pizza, he said, and he did reassure her that he was taking his meds, but there had been a familiar plotting edge beneath the tension. She had heard that one too many times over the years at PPTH to miss it. Administratively back in Princeton, she would have been suspicious, but in the emotional maelstrom of this last week, she was worried and hopeful in turns. Remembering his throwing John's medals into the river, she hoped that whatever he was up to here would help.

Marina, next to Cuddy on the couch, was following a similar track, although she didn't know about the river episode. "Whatever they're doing today, it must be helping. Otherwise, they would have quit by now. He's going to be worn out when they finally stop, though."

Thomas was worried himself, but he tried for distraction. Lisa's tension level was rising along with the numbers on the clock. "How long has Greg known Jensen?" he asked.

"Three years next month," Wilson reported, then flinched as if the thought had an unpleasant aftertaste to it. Thomas noticed, considered, and discarded pursuit for the moment.

"He's obviously done a lot for him. I could tell that at the trial."

"He's brilliant as a psychiatrist." Wilson squirmed a little. "Maybe even too perceptive at times. But he's the first person I've ever run into whom I would compare with House in his own medical specialty. They're good friends by now, too."

There was perhaps just the suggestion behind Wilson's tone of the same almost jealousy that Thomas had felt the other day. Not that Thomas begrudged Greg his brilliant friend or therapist at all; he was grateful to Jensen for helping him. He just wished that his son would trust him someday like that. "Greg mentioned playing the piano at his wedding."

"Yes," Cuddy confirmed, getting pulled into the conversation. "Jensen's daughter requested that. They came to our wedding; Greg had diagnosed Cathy when she was quite ill a few months earlier and saved her life, and she was very interested in him since then. At the wedding, he played a song for me that he wrote himself." She couldn't help pausing there, basking in the glow of the memory, and Marina and Wilson obviously revisited the same moment. "Ever since she heard that, Cathy has been fascinated by his music. She wants to play herself, and her parents are getting her lessons, but with her, it's as much determination as talent. She's a neat girl, 10 years old now, just full of life, and Greg says she reminds him of Rachel, only older. I don't know her as well as he does, but I can see it."

Thomas smiled. "Rachel reminds me of Tim in several ways."

Wilson straightened up as a thought struck him. "You do know she's adopted, don't you? Or do you? How much . . ." If Thornton hadn't even known what they looked like, how much had House told him?

"Oh, yes, I know she's adopted. You're right, though, I haven't had a flood of details on the girls. Little pieces, here and there. Greg has been cautious talking, and I understand that. But most conversations had at least one or two tidbits that I could save and add to the growing picture."

Cuddy sighed. "He's just protective of them, Thomas. It will take time."

"It's all right, Lisa. I understand. Can't blame him, really, when I abandoned him as a child, or rather, when he always thought I did. As for how much he's told me, he first brought them up in October. Since then, I know their ages and some basic interests and personality traits. I know Abby is a musical genius and that Rachel is losing interest there. I did know that Abby had Dad's eyes, too; that's the one physical detail I had."

Wilson tilted his head. "Those are _your_ father's eyes?"

Thomas pulled his cell phone out, scrolling through his pictures until finding the one he wanted, the color shot of Timothy Thornton at the piano during a concert in 1946. He offered the phone, and Wilson got up to retrieve it and then went to sit on the couch between Marina and Cuddy where they all could see. He looked at the picture, then did a double take. "Wow."

"He looks _so_ much like Dad. A lot more than he does like me. If John had known my father, he would have worked it out even sooner, probably." Thomas sighed. "On the other hand, if John had known my father, I wouldn't have ever thought deception was possible. It might have brought things to a confrontation right away and ended the pain for Greg. Tim looked a lot like Dad, too. That's why Greg and Tim never met. I never took Tim with me on a visit; he would have been a dead giveaway, especially side by side. Emily never met Greg until the funeral, either, because she was always with Tim when I visited. Once Tim was grown, she did come with me to visit John and Blythe a few times, but Greg was already gone."

Wilson handed back the phone, and Thomas fished through the pictures for another one. "That's Tim." Wilson and Marina analyzed that one thoroughly. Cuddy had already seen it, though she looked again.

"Wonder what House would have been like with a brother," Wilson mused.

Thomas gave a bittersweet smile. "Tim was always full of life, too. Like I said, Rachel reminds me of him. He did have his moments testing limits growing up, but we were really close. He also had Dad's prankster streak. The one thing Dad took seriously in life was music; everything else was a game."

Cuddy smiled at the image. "Greg and Tim probably would have been close, too, if they'd grown up together. I can just see them plotting things together. Such a different family. Of course, they wouldn't have known your father even so." The colossal unfairness of it all suddenly struck her. Everybody Thomas had cared about in life had died and apparently had died early, except for possibly Emily, who was still pushing the averages. "I'm so sorry, Thomas." She got up to return the cell phone to him and give him a hug at the same time. He was getting a little quicker to respond on those during the last day, at least.

Once she had sat back down, Thomas changed the subject. "About the girls, Greg had told me that Rachel loved animals, and he mentioned that when you all were watching a parade on TV back at Thanksgiving, she was especially fascinated with the horses. So I was hoping she'd like that stuffed horse."

"You did give her that," Wilson confirmed.

Thomas nodded. "She doesn't know. Be careful with that; the girls think they're from Santa Claus."

"Actually, they think their father is Santa Claus, but that's not because Greg lied about it." Cuddy looked at her watch again, then suddenly pulled out her own cell phone. Resisting temptation at the moment to call her husband and disrupt whatever he and Jensen were doing right now, she brought up her calendar. "Thomas, when is your birthday?"

"October 1st," he replied.

Cuddy entered it and saved. "I owe you 75 back birthday cards, but you'll definitely be getting one from now on. More than a card, even. Welcome to the family."

He smiled at her, but he couldn't help calling the technical point. "You don't owe me 75 back cards, Lisa, because you weren't around for several of those early ones. If you could send cards before you were born, Greg really meant it when he said you were compulsively organized."

"Oh, shut up," she replied fondly. She backed out of her calendar to the menu, looked at the screen for a moment, then put the phone away undialed. "You could take another nap while we wait."

"No, I couldn't," Thomas said, and there was a trace of Housian steel beneath his voice. "He said 10:00. Hopefully it won't be too much longer."

"Hopefully." Cuddy looked at her watch again, and Thomas did the same. Wilson firmly took hold of the conversation, steering it into various tales of the girls, trying to keep these two distracted.

(H/C)

Jensen drove as they neared their destination. House, stiffly upright in the passenger's seat, was riveted on the view through the windshield. The interval with pizza and talking about music and children had been a nice break, but shopping for supplies after that had wound him back up, and at the moment, every muscle in his body was tense. His leg was hurting, but he was barely aware of it.

Jensen circled the block his second time, catching a chance without anyone too close behind this time, and turned into the entrance to the cemetery, killing the headlights as soon as he was off the main road. The moon was almost full tonight, dimly lighting the graveyard, and the van picked its careful way along the darkened roads, slowly leaving the traffic and the city press behind. "You sure this is the right one?" House asked as Jensen turned at a cemetery path intersection.

"Yes," Jensen said succinctly, not annoyed but confident.

House sighed, and his fingers tattooed a nervous rhythm on the cane. "You'd better be. Must admit, though, I wasn't paying much attention to the scenery the day of the funeral."

"You were also drugged on extra Ativan," Jensen commented, his eyes not leaving the road. "You were missing a few details that day."

The remark was perfectly matter-of-fact, no judgment attached, but House couldn't help getting defensive. "You going to threaten to cut me off on that? I don't overuse it, damn it. Only take it when I need to."

"No, I'm not going to threaten to cut you off. I'm not even going to say it was the wrong thing to do on that day."

House studied his profile in the dark, waiting for the other shoe to drop, finally growing tired of the wait. "So you just want me to know that you know?"

"Yes," Jensen said. He took another turn. "Fortunately that site is a good way from the main entrance." He pulled up and switched the van off. "Here we are."

House looked around. In the dark, the cemetery looked otherworldly. A few old oak leaves, clinging stubbornly to their branches, rustled in the light wind as he opened the door. This seemed a totally different place than Monday, but he knew that the memories were there, lurking behind the stones around them, waiting to leap out and assault him. There were ghosts all around. Jensen walked around the van to the passenger's side, and House picked up the box of letters while Jensen grabbed the Walmart sack and the two shovels. House thought he would always remember Jensen silently but firmly picking up the second shovel from the rack in the store. Not taking his away, not offering to do it instead so the cripple wouldn't have to, but definitely and equally joining him.

The psychiatrist finished collecting his load and put the shovels down to shut the door as softly as possible. It still sounded horribly loud to House. He looked around quickly, but no guard was in sight, and no police appeared. Not yet, anyway. He turned toward what he knew was the right direction, but he still waited. Even in the January air, he was sweating in his coat. Jensen waited patiently. After a moment, House made himself take a step. Then another. Then another. One slow step at a time, he approached the site of Monday's breakdown.

He _had_ to do this. He knew he had to do it, had to confront that lying tombstone without bolting this time, and had to say goodbye to her. He needed to face this before he went home. His stride caught, and Jensen touched him lightly on the arm, and he managed another step. The ground grew more uneven as they left the gravel path, more difficult for cane walking, and the psychiatrist pulled out the flashlight from the sack and turned it on, focusing carefully on the ground right in front of their feet. The two shovels, tucked under his arm, clinked together.

"Keep those damned things quiet," House snapped. Another step.

Unexpectedly, the smell struck him. The flowers, all the flowers from the funeral, spread over her grave. Still fragrant, still beautiful. They had not yet died, though they would. He was suddenly glad that Cuddy had taken a bush. Hopefully, that would not die, not until long after he did, at any rate. He took another step, following the smell, trying to think of flowers and not of that stone, not of the lies, the pain of the past, and the cold, hard, irrevocable finality of the present. At least it was dark. Nobody here but Jensen. He could have come earlier, at least until he added the thought of the letters, but the world would have had the opportunity to see then, and this farewell, this _funeral_ was private.

Another step. He saw the outline of the flowers on the ground ahead now, and a gleam of color stuck back from the edge of the flashlight's circle. He took a final step to the foot of his mother's grave and stopped. Trembling even with Jensen's hand on his arm, he slowly looked up the length of the flowers that covered the site, and finally, he faced the tombstone again.

He stared. His breath caught for a moment, and afraid his eyes were playing tricks on him or that he truly was losing it, he snatched at the flashlight, nearly dropping the box of letters as he redirected its beam upward. He and Jensen both stood motionless for a moment in surprise, and then the psychiatrist laughed softly, and after a moment, House couldn't help joining him.

The tombstone had already been confronted - and had lost.


	60. Chapter 60

A/N: Sorry for no weekend chapter. I worked myself into the ground outside Saturday and did such a good job on it that I had no energy left for writing once I quit. Ah, spring!

My own illicit digging in the dark memory (graves not included): When Mom was married to her second husband, we lived on the square of a small town in an apartment over his store. The square was utterly bare, containing maybe two trees. That was it. Mom, the gardener and landscaper, was offended, thinking that it reflected poorly on the town and also lamenting the "lack-a-vista" from her window. She went to the city officials and offered to landscape the courthouse lawn at her own expense. They refused, saying it would be "too much bother." Mom then bought bulbs, mentally landscaped it out, and planted bulbs on the square from 1:00 to 3:00 a.m. each weekday morning for a few weeks while this little, sleepy town was dead. I thought this was hilarious. (Second husband did not and didn't see the point in such a fuss over plants.) Anyway, I asked Mom if I could join her in this criminal activity. She agreed, so out we both went the next several mornings, wearing dark clothes, armed with bulb planters, always taking note of the nearer of the two trees for rapid hiding behind if a car were heard approaching. Fun times. And some weeks later, the town had flowers on the square, neatly arranged, lining the walks and in beds at the corners. The authorities probably guessed but never did anything, and we watched carefully at the first mowing. The man mowed around them. Classic Mom in her better days. The world needs flowers and is going to have them whether it wants them or not, though she would ask first.

Hope you very much enjoy this chapter, my favorite in the story.

(H/C)

The two men stood absorbing the scene, and then House approached for a closer look, curious now as to technique. The only thing left clear on John's half of the stone was his name, though Blythe's side was untouched. On John's, everything else was now covered, the Marine insignias around the edges and also the lines of his self-written lying epitaph. Under the flashlight, there had been a vague hint of patches, but if you hadn't known what it looked like before and weren't looking closely, it might easily have escaped notice.

Jensen walked up with him, playing the flashlight closely around the uppermost patch where a Marine insignia had been. House put down the box of letters and ran his left hand around the edges of the area. The patches were made of that thinnest plywood that can be bought in small pieces of a foot square for crafts and little projects. They were each cut neatly to size, apparently applied to the stone with some sort of superglue or model cement, and then spray painted over the top, a near-perfect color match to the body of the stone.

Jensen knelt, aiming the flashlight around the base, and came up after a minute's searching with a few pieces of sawdust. "Not too much left. I think he tried to clear it up or blow it away."

"The wind was blowing a lot more on Monday night," House mused. "Do you realize how much time it took to cut all the pieces to size and do this in the dark? Damn." Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. "His foot. He didn't hit it in his room on something while tripping; he kicked the tombstone. I thought examining it that it looked a lot more like a deliberate strike than just running into something. He really whaled it."

"You must have thrown him for a loop noticing his foot Tuesday morning," Jensen said. "Obviously he didn't mean for us to know what he'd been doing that night."

"Pretty quick on the story, though. He thinks on his feet, bruised or not." House stared at the stone. "Why would he do all this if he didn't want to make a statement to me with it?"

"Answer that yourself," Jensen insisted. He felt over a few of the patches for himself. "Nice job." After a minute, he reached into the Walmart sack, withdrew the can of black spray paint, and silently offered it to House.

House was still staring at the tombstone. He didn't take the can of paint. His plan had been to viciously mark out the lying areas and then, tomorrow morning, to go to a stone company and have them come remove the whole thing immediately, just leaving the site blank for the few weeks it would take to have a new stone carved.

Grudgingly, he had to admit that Thornton had done him one better. Unlike big streaks of black paint, this was subtle enough to have a good chance of escaping notice or, even if notice, objection by the cemetery staff during this non-mowing season among the thousands of other stones here and might well have lasted up until the new stone arrived. Any friends of his mother's close enough to visit her grave would also know enough of the back story that they would think he had done it himself and not raise the point. The monument company arriving ultimately with the new stone would probably have made the same assumption. No, Thornton's scheme was designed to postpone notice until long past House going back home. Meanwhile, while waiting for the new stone, Blythe still had her name there. As did John, that much if no more.

But why go to all this trouble if he didn't want to score points from it? House squirmed, uncomfortable with the direction of those thoughts. He took the paint can but set it down on the ground, postponing any fate for it, and picked up the box of letters again.

He took two awkward, stiff steps to his mother's side, turning his back on the stone. At least it had been reduced to just a stone, hard and cold and dead. It wasn't John's laughter or John's voice now, and whatever ghosts might be watching them tonight, John was no longer one of them. It was hard to bend over, and his leg was already ramping up its protests tonight, but House managed to use the cane to push the flowers aside and clear a patch of a few feet. Fresh, newly disturbed dirt was revealed, ready for the digging.

Jensen handed him one of the shovels. House had already considered technique here. Using any sort of foot force would be out of the question, either leg. He would have to lean on it like a substitute cane and use entirely his upper body to push the blade down. It would still hurt at that, but at least it would, even if tediously, be possible. He dropped the cane to one side and took his first shovel full. No easier than he had expected. He gritted his teeth, deposited it to one side, and came back for more. Jensen worked with him, keeping pace, not taking larger bites of earth or more frequent blows than he did. After a little while, House stopped to lean on the shovel for a minute and take a quick breather, resting his leg. He was sweating.

The psychiatrist stopped along with him, and then, as he waited, muttered, "Shut up, Mark."

House couldn't help grinning. He had never expected to smile or to laugh during this self-imposed mission, but he hadn't expected a lot of things he'd run into so far. "Does he wonder what the hell you're doing?"

"Yes. I've got keep-out signs hung up clearly right now, and I don't think he'll call, but he's definitely suspicious. Fortunately, he does realize I'm an adult now. It's not quite like when I was a kid, but he's always had the big brother complex, even if he only earned the title by twelve minutes."

"I would have sucked as a big brother," House said thoughtfully.

"No, you would have been fun. Might have given your parents gray hairs a little sooner, but you would have been a good one."

_Your parents._ House looked at the slowly growing hole at his feet. How different things could have been, and yet . . . he could imagine the world without John, even if as in a sci-fi movie, something totally apart from his reality. But he couldn't quite wish that he had known life without her. With her and elsewhere, yes, but there had been good moments, as Jensen said. So much could have been different - but it wasn't. He appreciated what he had had, at least from his mother. And now and then, as he had told Cuddy and Jensen a few times, she had let him be able to pretend that nothing was wrong, that things were normal, because she didn't know otherwise. That occasional oasis of escape had been priceless.

He picked up the shovel again, and they resumed digging. When the hole was about a foot deep and maybe two long, they stopped. "That ought to do it," House said. He propped himself against the shovel, not bothering to pick up the cane, and retrieved the box of letters. Crumpling up the first few pages, he dropped them into the hole, and Jensen took out the box of matches from the sack. He handed them over, and House struck one and dropped it in. The paper flared up, blazing brightly for a minute in the fire pit although staying below ground level, out of reach of the light wind (and hopefully out of reach of any guard's eyes). Then it shriveled, the writing vanishing slowly, and lost all substance.

House had debated simply burying the letters, but he knew that while they would eventually decompose underground, he would be unable to stop wondering about the process mentally and following it from Princeton. The chances of somebody else digging them up, though remote, would also gnaw at him. Keeping the box elsewhere or giving it to Jensen or even back to Thornton wouldn't work, either. If he had access to the letters, someday, in some moment of weakness, he wouldn't be able to resist reading them. No, he needed them _gone_, utterly destroyed, and no better place for the ashes than here in her grave.

Page by page he added sheets, crumpling each, feeding the flames. He and Jensen watched in silence, and unexpectedly, he could feel the fire warming him, feeling good in January. At the end, he dropped the box in, and the greedy fire consumed it, too.

As the flame was dying, another thought struck him, and he turned back toward the van, then looked at the fire. It would take him too long. "Would you go get that medical chart?" he asked softly. Jensen gave his arm a squeeze and then left without saying anything. House listened to his firm, confident, uncrippled strides. He returned in under a minute with the chart, and that, too, went into the fire, page by page. Finally, there was nothing left but gray, fluffy ashes and embers.

Embers. Like Thornton's horse. House looked over at the tombstone again, then turned away. He started putting the dirt back in the hole. That was a little easier than digging; he could use the blade of the shovel to scrape it in. Jensen helped him fill the hole level, and then House bent over with difficulty. Gently, carefully, he rearranged the flowers back over her grave, and that task the psychiatrist left to him alone. House wavered a bit straightening up; his leg was really hurting now. He stood there, looking at the flowers, silent tears running down his face. She had loved him. He knew that, had always known it. He wished to hell that she had been able to talk to him, and yes, she should have noticed what was going on with John. But he didn't doubt that she had loved him. As he had loved her.

Finally, he turned away, looking at the stone again. Jensen bent down to retrieve his cane, offering it in exchange for the shovel, and House took it. He surveyed Thornton's handiwork a final time. Seizing the flashlight in his left hand, now free, he turned back toward the van. "Get the paint," he tossed over his shoulder as he started limping away. He heard Jensen behind him, the rustle of the sack as the unused black spray paint returned to it, the clink of the shovels. Then the psychiatrist was beside him again, catching up easily, and they returned to the van together.

"I'm proud of you," Jensen said as he started the van.

House was leaning back in the seat, utterly drained, both hands resting on his thigh. He thought of Cuddy at the words, and then he thought of Thornton the other night saying that. Then he thought of Thornton going from the hotel after that back out here to the cemetery, spending what had to be a few hours altering the stone, then kicking it with all his might at the end. Then returning to the hotel and never mentioning or using the episode. House sighed.

Jensen paused carefully at the entrance to the cemetery, picked his moment, then turned on the headlights as he pulled out onto the road. House watched his face as he drove, suddenly realizing that Jensen himself looked tired. "Thanks for today," he said gruffly.

The psychiatrist smiled without looking over. "You're welcome." At that moment, the swirling cherry and blue lights lit up behind them, filling the interior of the van.

"Shit!" House snapped.

Jensen pulled over and waited. "Might need Mark's help tonight after all. He can post bail."

"Cuddy would do it for you, too. Or she can do you and Wilson bail me out; he owes me one."

Jensen lowered the window, and they both heard the firm tramp of authority approaching. "License and insurance, please," the officer said briskly. House fished out the rental paperwork from the glove compartment, which included insurance, of course, Cuddy being Cuddy, and Jensen added his driver's license to it and handed them over. The policeman studied the license. "Middletown, New York. You're a long way from home."

"I'm going back tomorrow," Jensen replied. "We were down here for a few days for a funeral." House had to admire the delivery, not playing too hard for sympathy but still putting the fact out there, along with an implied explanation of last-minute farewell if they had been seen exiting the cemetery.

The officer's expression softened. He looked at the other paperwork. "This is a rental car?"

"Yes. We got it at the airport."

"You're not listed as an authorized driver, though."

House spoke up. "I am." He handed his own license over. "My wife and I are both on the paperwork. I was driving earlier today, but I was just too tired tonight, so my friend took over. It's been a long day." He shifted just enough to draw attention to the cane.

"Gregory House." They heard the recognition in his voice. Yes, the police of Lexington were familiar with his name between the trial and, the year before, the capture here of the PI breaking into Blythe's house. "You're here for a funeral?"

"My mother," House said. "She had a heart attack last week."

"My condolences." The policeman handed the two licenses and the paperwork back. "When you turn the van back in at the airport tomorrow, be sure to tell them that the right tail light is burned out. Good night, gentlemen." He turned away, and the firm tramp of authority receded.

Jensen closed the window, and he and House looked at each other and both laughed, a soothing balm over the sore edges of today and this whole trip. "Are you ready to go back?" Jensen asked once they both could speak again.

"Yeah." House leaned his head back against the headrest, and Jensen pulled the van back into traffic, heading for the hotel.


	61. Chapter 61

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, and I'm glad you enjoyed that last chapter - and the story about Mom illegally planting flowers. Some of you will be disappointed a little in this chapter, I know, but realistically, House (and Thornton, too) has hit empty for this day, physically and emotionally. The moment of his return is not the time to dive into the past. They _will_ talk a little in the next chapter. However, those waiting for the full, Blythe-style, lay out everything discussion will not get it in this story. Note that I'm _not_ saying you won't get it. I'm saying it isn't in this story. Little steps on the road to progress. But after the turmoil of this story so far, I think all of the characters need a good night of rest, and this fictional night, they will actually get it. Enjoy 61.

(H/C)

The minutes ticked on relentlessly. Cuddy gave her umpteenth look at her watch - 9:45 - and then looked across to Thomas, expending some of her worry on the family member she could see. "Thomas, you really _have_ to get some sleep tonight." He looked beyond exhausted.

He smiled at her. "I know. I promise, tonight I'll stay away from planes and also be kind to my foot. I'll be fine, Lisa." He looked at his own watch. "But I need to see him before I can get to sleep."

"He'll be worn out himself when they finally do get here," Cuddy reminded him.

"I said see him. I'm not expecting anything more tonight." Thomas sighed and shifted a little in the recliner, fighting off another wave of tiredness.

"It can't be too much longer," Wilson said, and Marina, on the couch next to Cuddy, nodded. "At least the girls haven't woken back up. If they wake up before he returns, they might revolt." They had been promised that their father would be there by morning, and to them, waking up in the middle of the night was at least a downpayment on morning. Rachel often challenged the definition during nights, and Abby could split hairs, too, when she hadn't seen him all day.

Marina stood. "Not a sound, but I'd better take a look at them." She disappeared into the bedroom, and Wilson came to his feet, stretched, and walked through House and Cuddy's room to the bathroom beyond.

Left briefly alone with Thomas, Cuddy came to attention. "Thomas," she said softly. He had been checking his watch again, but he looked up quickly, quirking an eyebrow in a familiar gesture that warmed her. "Something you ought to know. I can't really go into details, but just realize, there is a reason he avoids your name. He's not just trying to hurt you by it."

Even tired, his mind was pretty quick on deductive leaps. "You mean John used that?" His eyes flared up with a cold anger that would have frightened her had she been on the receiving end of it.

"Just think about it," she said. "And please, don't tell him I told you that much."

His fingers drummed an agitated pattern on his leg. "I know the past has bad associations for him, too. I just didn't think about that particular piece of it. Does it bother him in general? From other people, I mean?"

"Watch him." Cuddy felt like she was walking a confidentiality tightrope here, but she wanted to give him something. "You can work it out."

"I'm definitely never expecting him to be able to call me Dad. I know John ruined that for him. But the girls don't seem to bother him calling him Daddy. Back at the trial, he started out his evidence calling John Dad, and then he switched partway. Was that a new breakthrough right then?" She hesitated, and he backed off. "I'm sorry, Lisa. I know you're in an awful spot here between us. I'm not trying to make you overreach."

At that moment, Marina emerged from the bedroom. "Out like lights," she reported. "They're tired, too."

"They've had a rough week just like the rest of us," Thomas said.

Wilson returned from the bedroom, and before he even had a chance to sit down again, the front door rattled. Cuddy bounced up like a jack in the box as her husband and Jensen entered the suite. Thomas put the footrest of the recliner down, started to rise himself, and then stayed put, not wanting to make his son feel on the spot. His eyes drank in every detail, though, as he watched him. Wilson abandoned his trip back to his own chair, took two steps, then paused and waited as Cuddy went on up to greet her husband.

House looked completely drained. His whole body was sagging slightly, and the limp was the worst Thomas had seen it yet. Cuddy and Wilson both mentally assigned him about an 8. There was no sign of the box of letters. There was perhaps a suggestion of new clarity in his eyes, though. He looked like one who had walked through a slashing storm and perhaps saw the end of it ahead, even if he hadn't emerged from the rain completely yet. Cuddy met him before he was five steps inside the door, embracing him tightly, and he leaned into her. "We're back," he announced needlessly a moment later as they parted. "Are the girls okay?"

"They're sound asleep," Cuddy reported. "They were a little uneasy a few times today, but the phone calls helped."

He took another few painful steps and turned to face Thornton. No wonder the old man looked so tired, he thought. He had not only been flying around the Midwest last night; he had been out vandalizing the cemetery the night before that. House still was amazed at the time and attention that went into that job - and that there had been no effort at all to claim them. Just now, though, he was too tired even for thinking, and Thornton looked dead on - or off - his feet, too. "We all need to get to bed," he said.

Thomas stood, managing to hide his flinch from Lisa as he put weight on his foot. "Good idea. It's been a long day, and you . . ." His son tensed up, and he abandoned that description halfway, remembering that an analysis, even if accurate, wouldn't be welcome. "Good night, Greg. Good night, everybody. I enjoyed today." He took a few steps, then was unable to resist fishing just a little. "What time is breakfast tomorrow?"

House stiffened up a little but said nothing. Cuddy considered. "8:30," she said. Let them all sleep in a little, and her husband needed some extra meds tonight.

"I'll see you all then." He walked within two feet of his son on the way out, forcing himself not to touch his arm as he passed.

"Good night, Thomas," Cuddy called. "Get some rest."

He turned to smile at her just before leaving. "I will."

As soon as he was gone, Jensen spoke up. "We need to get to bed, too, James."

Wilson was already heading for the door. "I know. Night, everybody. See you in the morning."

Once they had left, House limped to the girls' room. Cuddy, trailing him, sorted out the body language. His stride wasn't merely tired; he looked like he had strained his leg at some point today. It was obviously giving him hell. He opened the door and just stood there a minute, looking at his daughters, and she came up beside him and took his left arm. "No point in disturbing them right now," she whispered after a moment. "If we wake them up, we'll be another hour or so getting them back to bed." Exhaustion warred briefly with stubbornness, and then she felt his arm relax a little under her fingers. He turned away toward their own room, and Cuddy's eyes met Marina's with a look of mutual relief. "Good night, Marina,"

"Good night." the nanny replied. "Sleep well."

Once in their bedroom, House sagged even further. He limped painfully to the bathroom, and Cuddy picked up his sleep clothes and then took them to him. "You want a hot soak tonight?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I'd fall asleep in it." A pause, and then he surprised her by raising the point before she did. "But I need more than the Vicodin tonight. Not too much, but some."

Gratefully, she retrieved the meds bag. He had finished everything else and more or less collapsed into bed by the time she had the shot prepared. "Here it is, Greg," she said, but he didn't open his eyes again to check the dosage, trusting her.

"Okay." He sighed. "How was today?"

She gave him the shot, then reached down gently to explore his leg. No spasms at the moment; it was simply hurting. "It went well. Thomas is really good with the girls." She started massaging his leg anyway, knowing that her touch usually helped him.

He sighed again. "Too much today," he muttered. "I'll tell you about it sometime."

"Whenever you're ready to. I'll wait." She kissed him, grateful that the tension was less. She could sense that even through his tiredness. "Just get some rest now. Good night, Greg."

"Night."

She stayed there at his side massaging his leg until long after he was down for the count. Finally, she prepared for bed herself, then climbed in next to him, snuggling up, reassuring herself in his even, deep breathing. It was going to be all right. Closing her eyes, she released a few of her own worries, postponed the others, and tonight, she slept.

(H/C)

Once in their room, Wilson gathered clothes while Jensen went through the bathroom. As the psychiatrist emerged, he said, "I'm going to go ahead and take a shower tonight. Good chance for you to call home privately if you want to. I already talked to Sandra - twice today, actually. Rachel wanted an update this morning on Belle."

Jensen had already turned down the bed. "Thanks, but not tonight. I called Melissa and Cathy a few hours ago after we ate." He climbed in without his usual fluid grace of movement, and Wilson suddenly noticed how worn out Jensen himself looked, far more now than he had earlier in front of House.

"Are you all right?" the oncologist asked.

"Fine, James. I'm just tired."

"You two sure were gone long enough. I know you're not going to tell me everything you talked about, but did it help?" Wilson thought House looked better, even if hurting badly, but he wanted insider confirmation.

To his surprise, Jensen did give him that much. "Yes, it helped." The psychiatrist had his eyes closed already, but a few seconds later, he added, "He was very aware of you and Dr. Cuddy staying back with the girls today to monitor things. That was a worthwhile role."

"Glad it helped him to know we were there, but I wasn't doing much. Thornton isn't going to hurt them." Wilson paused on his way to the bathroom. "He's a neat old guy. Really interesting, and he surprised me several times today. I wouldn't mind getting to know him myself. Not just trying to fish out information, I mean, but getting to know him as a person, just for me, not because he's House's father. Do you think House would object too much to that? Jensen?"

Jensen was already asleep.

(H/C)

Down in his own room, Thomas changed into pajamas, then climbed into bed, sorting through the memories of the day. The girls. Lisa. Greg. He hoped some progress had been made today. Going home tomorrow afternoon still loomed, but they had a few hours left, and he planned to mine them for all they were worth. Tonight, though, he had to get some rest. He knew he was at the end of his rope physically, that those two nights back to back had been too much. He wasn't 30 anymore. Still, a smile crossed his lips as he remembered correcting the tombstone. Better late than never. He settled into the pillow with a sigh and, for the first time in two days, totally let go for the moment. "Good night, Em-"


	62. Chapter 62

A/N: Here's another short update. We are definitely on the wrap-up for this story, just a few chapters left. I doubt you'll get more this weekend, because I have a concert plus a separate solo plus a real writing story with a deadline of 4/30 that will be getting its final polish, with any extra time after those going to working outside. So tune in next week for more of this story, which will continue with breakfast together. Thanks again for coming along with me on this ride. I have loved this one, probably my favorite in the series to date.

(H/C)

The knock on the door of the suite came at 8:10 Thursday morning.

House had been limping around the main room restlessly, letting himself seek mental refuge in movement for a few minutes while Cuddy and his girls weren't watching. His leg felt better today than last night, but it was still worse than baseline, proclaiming loud and clear what it thought of digging in cemeteries. His thoughts weren't much more settled. A decision would have to be made before long, he knew, and he hated being pushed to it. The cemetery versus his childhood. Which tipped the scales more? Thus ran the carousel of his thoughts this morning, prancing in a circle with a lot of production and energy attached but actually getting nowhere. Damn it, even his mind was running on a horse theme lately. It, like events, was siding with Thornton. All he wanted was to be sure. He owed that to his daughters - and to himself. In his experience, there had always been hidden dangers attached to a father. But how wide was his statistical sample pool, after all? Was it valid to use that in the differential? But it _demanded_ to be used in the differential. Thornton wasn't just here; he had been there, too. Occasionally. Rarely. And Jensen had said the letters didn't give it away. House huffed and was starting another lap when the knock interrupted him.

The girls had been asleep in bed with them this morning when he woke up. They didn't seem scared, just delighted to see him again, and once everyone was awake, the ensuing hour and a half had been a whirlwind of toddler activity and stories and reunion. Rachel had eagerly reported her conversation with Ember, and Abby had been justifiably proud of being in on the secret with the music computer yesterday morning and was looking for feedback. But at the moment, they were both busy elsewhere. Marina was in the bathroom with Rachel, and Abby had had an accident with a cardboard box of juice and was getting totally redressed by Cuddy. The spilled juice had left a small stain on the carpet, and House, as he limp-paced, hadn't been able to stop eying it, remembering not John for once, not the glue from when he was six, but trying, and failing, to obtain help from Thornton a week later. The man had laughed at him. But he hadn't known.

House glanced at his watch and headed for the door. It was Thornton in person, as if the thought had conjured him up. He looked better this morning, House noted on a quick analysis. Definitely more rested, still tired, but the weariness right now was cumulative, not acute. He'd had a good night. As he took a few steps forward, he was back to concealing the bruised foot so skillfully that most people never would have spotted it.

"Good morning, Greg." Thomas walked into the suite, a little bolder this morning on entry, and looked around. Noting their temporary privacy, he jumped straight to the point, taking his sketch pad out from underneath his arm, turning it to a page, then offering it to his son. "I woke up at 6:00; still can't sleep late even when I'm trying to. So I drew for a few hours. I put down a couple of ideas on Blythe's stone to bounce off you."

The delivery was perfect, the eyes steady. Not a flicker. House didn't know whether to be suspicious or impressed at how good this man was at concealing things. He took the pad and looked at the page. It contained four small drawings of stones, all identically stark on John's side and with a similar floral theme but subtle variations to it on Blythe's. The flowers and positions were just a bit different on each. House studied them, his eyes absorbing details, pausing at the end, returning to the third one. Azaleas outlined her half, and one branch extended with blooms to rest beneath her name, almost as if pushing the date of her death out of the way, or as if it might achieve that in another year. If it were real instead of stone, that was. Too elaborate, really, and slightly lopsided on effect, but it fit her somehow. House pulled the page off without a word and offered the pad back. Folding the sketch, he shoved it into a pocket and went for the throat immediately in this brief window of opportunity.

"You know," he said, "redecorating a tombstone in the dark makes a lot more sense than kicking one."

Thornton's eyes widened. The shock was complete, but he didn't flinch, absorbing the blow, considering for a few seconds, coming back quickly. "It's a different kind of satisfaction," he said. "They both can feel pretty good."

"You can't tell me that kick felt good."

"At that moment, it did," he insisted. "Later, not so much, and I forgot how old I am for a minute there in how hard I kicked it, but I don't regret it."

House shifted, feeling an unwilling identification with that attitude. There had been a few times over the years. . . "It's stupid to hurt yourself. Doesn't change the past."

"Nothing will change the past. I do realize that, Greg."

"You didn't want me to know about it. Didn't try to use it. Why?" House demanded.

Thornton held the eye contact. "What I did there Monday night, and anything I might have said there, wasn't aimed at you. That was personal." House tested the sincerity and tried to grasp this, and Thomas changed the subject a little, offering a small release of the tension. "I didn't mean to set off Lisa worrying, though. I do regret that."

"It's impossible to stop her from worrying," House said. "But telling her you did it deliberately wouldn't make her feel any better. She'd worry more, if anything."

"That's what I thought. I didn't intend for anyone to notice the foot."

"News flash: I notice things. That's my _job_."

The other man smiled with a look of genuine pride. "I underestimated you there. My mistake." He considered asking about his son going back to the cemetery; House saw the thought in his eyes. But he didn't voice it.

Relieved but unable to resist scoring another point, House continued. "You've never mentioned your meeting after the trial with the defense attorney to me, either."

That bombshell surprised his father even more. "How do you know . . . did he come to you after all?" The pure anger in his voice and eyes, the way his fists tightened and his posture fired up for a fight, caught House off guard. Thornton was ready to nail that attorney to the wall if he had been bothering his son. The other man looked dangerous suddenly, actually physically dangerous as well as mentally, but in an odd way, this potential violence wasn't frightening, not like John.

"No," House admitted, unable to avoid giving the reassurance.

Thornton relaxed, anger fading into simple curiosity. "Then how did you find out?"

"Why didn't you try to use that?" House asked again. "It's been _months_."

"Because it was personal," Thornton repeated. "I wasn't trying to score a point with you. I just wanted that son of a bitch to regret giving you a hard time and also to leave you alone forever if he had any thoughts of getting even. I have no doubt that you could have dealt with him, Greg, even physically if that came up, although he's a pure coward and not likely to try that; mental sneakiness is more his style. Still, that wasn't the point. You shouldn't have had to deal with it. He didn't deserve another second of your time and attention than he'd already taken." The sincerity in the few last sentences rocked House again. Thornton wasn't seeing him as a cripple or trying to protect a weakling but had wanted to spare him annoyance. And it _had_ been personal, too. House remembered the ice-cold threat in the other man's voice on that recording, reducing the attorney to a quivering, spineless pile of goo without laying a hand on him, then flipping the intensity off like a light switch.

"Did you enjoy _that_?" he couldn't help asking.

"Yes," Thornton admitted promptly. "That isn't why I did it, but yes, I enjoyed every second of it. He deserved that."

The door to the bedroom opened, and Cuddy and a newly dressed Abby emerged, with Rachel and Marina close behind. "Thomas. Good morning." She marched over and inspected him, obviously calculating sleep. Abby stopped beside her mother's leg and looked him over as well. Rachel, on the other hand, bounded up and squeezed his leg in a hug.

"Morning, Thomas!" Rachel released him and ran off in search of the horse, returning to galloping hoof beats. "Ember says morning."

"Good morning, Lisa. Good morning, Rachel - and Ember. Good morning, Abby."

Abby eyed him. "Morning," she replied after a moment.

Cuddy, having finished her sleep analysis, walked over firmly to the group of chairs and pointed to the recliner. "Sit," she ordered, her tone already gearing up to tackle any argument.

Thomas gave her a smile and then, with perfect mimicry, barked as he sat down, giving his movements a crisp flourish and looking up expectantly at the end as if for a treat. Rachel and Abby both laughed, and House snorted and looked away to conceal his amusement. "Doggie!" Rachel exclaimed. She came up to the side of the chair to consider new possibilities as Cuddy, with a sigh and an eye roll, knelt and began to remove his shoe. "Good doggie. Can you talk like Ember?" She squeezed the ear for demonstration.

"Not as well as Ember can. My Ember or your Ember either one. It's harder to whinny."

"Try," Rachel demanded. He gave it a reasonable attempt, and she and Abby both giggled again.

Cuddy meanwhile had gotten the shoe off and was surveying his foot. More than 48 hours out from injury now, it was in full Technicolor glory. "Greg, are you sure this isn't fractured?"

House limped over and seized the foot, giving it a thorough palpation. Definitely a deliberate strike, and a hard one at that, the big toe taking the brunt of the kick. His eyes met Thomas' silently. "It's just bruised. You need to watch about running into things."

"I'll try to be more careful," Thomas replied. Both of them were absolutely steady in tone, and Cuddy didn't notice anything.

Rachel, distracted for the moment from animal sound effects, made her own inspection. "Did you color?" she asked Thomas, noticing how much more vivid it was today than yesterday.

He smiled at her. "No, Rachel. I haven't been coloring it, but it sure looks like it, doesn't it? It should start fading after today. It's going to be all right."

House straightened up with an effort - too much of an effort, and all of them looked at him, Thomas the best at hiding it, but everyone noticed. He was relieved when Wilson and Jensen arrived at that moment, and in the flurry of greetings and breakfast plans after Marina let them in, they all had something else to focus on besides his leg.


	63. Chapter 63

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but all musical and real-life writing activities went well. Updates are likely to be slower on my stories as we head into improving weather, as the work outside quotient increases. Thanks for all the reviews, and enjoy 63!

(H/C)

They ordered room service again. Cuddy realized how much Thomas was enjoying these meals together privately, and this might well be the last one. The schedule today would be tight, and lunch was likely to be on the run.

Speaking of the schedule, she launched into details even before she finished hanging up the phone after ordering. "About the agenda for today," she started, coming back over to sit down with the rest of the group, taking the end of the couch closest to her husband's chair. Rachel was in his lap, along with the stuffed Ember. Marina, next to Cuddy on the couch, had Abby, and their youngest daughter scrambled over into her mother's lap as she sat down. "The schedule is going to be packed, but I've been thinking it through."

"And the sun also rose this morning," House snarked, but he sounded a little distracted. He was very thoughtful so far today. Cuddy wondered what he and Thomas had talked about briefly and hoped that it had been a real conversation.

She gave him the requisite tight smile to acknowledge his quip but plunged on undeterred into her carefully polished itinerary. "We need to be at the airport by 1:30." Wilson nodded in approval, while House clearly thought that security time limit was generous. "But we have some loose ends to tie up, too. Going back to the house, getting our boxes ready and shipping them. I also want to talk to Patsy. And there's the will."

"You're not going to get the will sorted out today, you know," Wilson told her. They had had a summary of the will's contents yesterday while waiting for House and Jensen.

"Oh, I know that. It's going to take a few months in probate before we can legally sell anything. But we need to work out arrangements on the house till then. Even before her brother gets here, she can keep an eye on it. We need to get the furniture moved into a storage area, plus the desk and the piano shipped. Eventually, all those gifts will have to be given out, and Patsy can help with contact information."

House pointedly looked at his watch. "You're going to clear out the house _and_ be at the airport by 1:30?" he asked skeptically. It was 8:40 now. "News flash. I realize you get confused on this point, but you're not actually a superhero."

She smiled at him. "I _have_ figured that out." Working on it, anyway, with Patterson's help. She mentally dodged the thought and plunged on into agenda. "Today's just the boxes and details. I know we can't deal with the furniture now. But we do need to get everything cleared out before her brother and his wife can move in, even if they're just renting at first." She was unable to resist a quick glance from her husband to Thomas. "I really think I'm going to have to come back down here for a weekend in the next couple to move things into storage. We can hire a truck company, but I want to supervise them."

House had caught that furtive glance and squirmed in his seat enough that Rachel looked back at him. Which was worse, letting Cuddy have a weekend alone talking to him, or participating himself? Thornton would be bound to show up, of course. Couldn't resist the chance for another dose of company. He had already perked up, putting this together and anticipating the ending with carefully controlled eagerness. House briefly considered getting his father a dog or something, to see if that would substitute. It would at least help differentiate between loneliness and something more.

But those hours in the graveyard, revising the stone, had not been sparked by loneliness. He shifted again, and his leg protested.

Cuddy, after the brief silence, went on briskly, and he realized that she was tense herself. Her tone didn't show it, but the angle of her jaw did. "This upcoming weekend will be snowed under with paperwork; I've been out of the hospital for over a week and a half. The second weekend in January has a donor coming who could only make it on a Saturday. He wanted a tour of PPTH. What about the third weekend?"

Wilson tightened up, and House noticed. "Third weekend's out," House vetoed. "Wilson and I are going to that model train show in Philly." Wilson relaxed, and Thomas smiled briefly.

Cuddy hid her own smile as her husband counted himself in without actually saying so. "Fourth weekend in January?" She looked from House to Thomas. "But the brother's current lease is up on the 15th."

"They can live with her for a while. Or they can test drive the furniture and see if they want to buy any of it. Remember, location, location, location. We have it, and they want it. They'll work with us."

Wilson very reluctantly removed himself from the roll call. Not that he didn't want to participate; he just thought that maybe he shouldn't. "I'm busy that weekend, so I'll pass." Jensen gave him a subtle nod.

"You didn't need to be wrestling furniture too much with your back anyway," Cuddy scolded. "That's okay, Wilson. We'll miss you, but we'll have hired movers to help." She looked back at her husband. "Fourth weekend in January?"

He shrugged. "You've already decided anyway. Watching muscles without brains move furniture; my idea of a fun weekend. The fourth is as good as any of them since you're determined to waste one."

Cuddy waited. The room waited. House dodged away, and after a moment, she firmly went on herself. "Do you want to come, Thomas? You can see the piano off on its way."

"I'd like that," he agreed quickly. "Let me know what shipping company you're using on the desk. More efficient to have both picked up at once, even if they go different directions from the warehouse later that day."

"I'll do that." She smiled at him, and the knock by room service came at that moment.

Conversation during breakfast was deliberately casual, avoiding any sticky subjects at all, but right as they finished, Abby spoke up. She had been sitting there thinking as usual, the wheels visibly spinning even while she ate. "More planes?" she asked her mother.

"That's right, Abby. We'll take another plane today. We're going back home this afternoon."

Abby looked over at Thomas, and her sister saw her and followed it. "What about Thomas?" Rachel asked.

"I'm going home, too, Rachel. I'm looking forward to seeing Ember, just like you are with Belle."

The offered animal distraction didn't divert her. "No!" she protested. "You come."

He smiled at her. "Rachel, I've got my own home. Maybe we'll see each other again sometime, but for now, we're going to have to say goodbye."

"But not like Grandma," Marina put in quickly. She had been very careful to explain to them the differences between "saying goodbye" at the funeral and when someone just walked out the door for a while. "This is the other kind of goodbye."

Rachel squirmed her way down from House's lap, almost knocking off their shared empty plate. "No. Don't wanna." She trotted over to Thomas' chair. He didn't bend to pick her up that time, and it was a difficult scramble by herself to get up into his lap. House couldn't help tensing up.

Cuddy sighed. "Rachel, maybe we can talk to him now and then. Maybe. But we do have to go home."

"Think about Ember," Thomas said. "I need to go back to her."

That, of course, was the wrong approach to take, as Rachel had the perfect solution. "Bring Ember, too."

"No," Thomas told her. "I'm sorry, but that's not how it's going to be right now. You need to go back home, and so do I." He looked from his granddaughter to his son.

House started to fire off a comment when the contrast abruptly hit him. Rachel wanted Thornton to join them; she didn't want him to take her away from the home she had. She was happy with that one already, and even at three, she knew it and wasn't interested in replacement, just addition. She was secure with her family, nothing like his own request at six. But still, she was only three. Her parents should be watching out for her interests, making decisions that sometimes she didn't agree with. He sighed. "Rachel, come here." Even in the insight, he couldn't resist the subtle test. She hesitated, then climbed down and came back across to him, and he helped her climb up. A knot deep within relaxed half a twist of the rope. "Today, we're going home, and so is he. Separately. Maybe. . . maybe you could see him again in a few weekends when we come back to move the furniture."

Rachel considered this. "When?"

"Three weeks, roughly. Think of Saturday. You know Saturdays." She nodded vigorously. The different schedule for her parents was obvious there. "We've got a Saturday coming right up in no time at all. Including that one, three Saturdays at home, then we'll come back here just for a day or two on the Saturday after that."

"With Thomas?" she asked.

"He'll be here. He won't fly down with us."

"And Ember?"

"No," said Cuddy, House, and Thomas in perfect unison. Rachel drooped a bit, then weighed that against the prospect of seeing him again, even without the elusive horse.

"I'm not busy the fourth weekend in January," Marina offered softly.

Cuddy smiled at her. "You might be now." She looked over inquiringly at Jensen.

The psychiatrist firmly shook his head. "I _am_ busy that weekend, just like James. I'm sure the rest of you will manage fine."

Rachel was still trying to work out three weekends mentally. Thomas spoke up tentatively. "Look at your Ember, Rachel. Four hooves. Walk, trot, canter, and gallop. If you count one hoof for each Saturday, we'll see each other by the time you're clear around the horse."

She brightened and retrieved the horse, which had been deposited beside the chair during breakfast. She squeezed a hoof. "One," she said with an impish grin.

"Doesn't count," her father said. "It isn't Saturday."

Cuddy looked at her watch and briskly shifted Abby over, stood, and started collecting plates. "It's 9:20 already. This day is going to be crazy trying to get everything covered."

"We have another stop before the house, too," her husband said. "You left one off your list." He fought back a laugh at her panicked expression as she turned toward him.

"_What_, Greg? No. We can't possibly do anything else this morning."

"Yes, we can. Short stop." He waited, drawing it out, watching her dread grow. Finally, he put her out of her misery. "I need to order a monument."


	64. Chapter 64

Cuddy was weighed down not only by the relentless clock but by guilt as they loaded the girls into the van a little while later. She was delighted that her husband had apparently reached a decision on a new stone for Blythe, hopefully aided by Thomas. That stop definitely merited a schedule adjustment. She didn't mind adding it at all. However, in an automatic reflex effort to still be as efficient as possible, she had suggested without thinking that they simply stop by the funeral home, which was roughly in between the hotel and Blythe's house, and delegate the funeral director. That funeral home didn't apparently do stones there themselves, at least didn't have a display outside, but they no doubt had connections in the business. They could accept a drawing and handle ordering it from there.

House had vetoed that immediately and sharply enough that both of his daughters gave him a puzzled look. Only then had Cuddy remembered to plug in the fact that Monday afternoon for his breakdown at the cemetery, the funeral director had been there to witness it. Guilt flooded through her. Of course, he would rather face anybody else in the funerary business today than that man again. She had quickly agreed, too quickly, only adding more emphasis to the awkwardness, and Wilson had borrowed House's laptop to quickly look up some addresses of companies and find the nearest. The adults tried to brush the moment off, but the girls were watching their father again.

_Damn it,_ Cuddy scolded herself as she passed Abby through the van door to Marina, who had just finished buckling up Rachel. _Learn to _think _for a minute before just worrying about being efficient._ Jensen and Wilson were already in the very back of the van, Wilson giving a few surreptitious looks around for the missing box of letters. House was in the front seat, staring through the windshield like the parking lot was the most fascinating vista he'd ever seen. Cuddy compulsively made sure all extremities were out of the doorway and then slid the door closed, turning around to nearly run straight into Thomas. For somebody so tall, he could be amazingly unobtrusive. She'd thought he was a few feet farther away and hadn't noticed his approach.

"We'll meet you at the house, Thomas," she said, pulling out the key and giving it to him. "You can go ahead and start taping boxes if you want. We shouldn't be too far behind."

"I'll see you there," he agreed, and then he startled her by giving her a tight hug, initiating it himself that time. His arms were strong, like his son's and yet completely different. No tingles down the spine here, only a feeling of security and odd belonging, like finding a home she hadn't realized she'd been missing. She couldn't help relaxing just a little in spite of herself, and he whispered into her ear. "Relax, Lisa. We all make mistakes. Believe me, I know." The words were so soft and quick that even if anyone else had been standing outside the van, they would have missed them. He released her promptly, stepping back.

"But you didn't mean . . ." she started to protest softly.

"Neither did you." He turned crisply away, ending the discussion. "Bye for now." She watched him start toward his own rental car with that long-legged, easy stride that was so achingly familiar. In the next moment, as soon as she remembered, she added exasperated admiration at how skillfully he could hide his pain. She wouldn't have noticed his foot herself today if she hadn't known already. That quality, too, was familiar.

Rounding the front of the van, she climbed into the driver's seat and reached out silently to give her husband's arm a squeeze of unspoken apology and understanding. In the next moment, their hands collided hard enough that both jumped. He had been reaching toward her without looking, too. The mutual, quickly hidden smile thawed the mood a little, and she started the van and backed out. "All right, monument shop, then the house."

"Thomas?" Rachel asked.

"He'll be there."

"At the house," Marina qualified. "Not at the monument shop. No point in all of us getting out there; you two can move faster alone."

"That's a good idea," Cuddy agreed. Loading the van up was quite a process, and time was precious today. In more ways than one.

Wilson, in the back seat, made another visual sweep and was forced to conclude that the letters simply weren't here. His eyes finished their latest round and bumped straight into Jensen's at the end of the arc. The psychiatrist was looking directly at him with amused understanding. Wilson sighed softly and dutifully looked straight ahead.

"There it is." The monument works was just up ahead, and Cuddy put the blinker on. "We'll be right back, everybody."

Abby came to attention. "M. O." She wiggled in frustration as the van turned in and the car seat restricted her further view of the sign by the road. "I wanna go."

"No." Cuddy turned to smile at her. "We'll be right back, Abby. We don't have time to explore the shop and look at letters."

"No!" Abby repeated, much louder than her mother had said it.

"Shut up, Abby!" Rachel hurled the words across Marina. With a sigh, Cuddy stopped her exit in progress, and her husband reached across to poke her.

"Go on, Lisa. Marina can deal with it fine herself. She's probably heard this routine a few times before."

Indeed, Marina was already speaking softly but firmly, a hand on each girl's arm. Cuddy resumed her exit and walked around the front of the van to join House. As they started toward the door of the shop, she took advance of the moment of relative privacy. "I'm sorry, Greg." He stopped to kiss her, and a little bit more of his tension had released when they walked on. "I wasn't thinking. I should have realized that it still mattered to you, even though it really _isn't_ anything to be ashamed of. He's probably seen worse from other families, even. But I . . ."

"Lisa," House said, reaching for the door.

"Yes?"

"Shut up." She did so with a gentle touch on his arm, and he didn't tighten up or pull away.

He opened the door of the shop. This place had the same air as a funeral home of somber professionalism, and a similarly professionally suited man stood from his desk as they entered. "May I help you?"

"We need to order a monument," Cuddy said.

"What do you think we want? Do people come in here for any other reason?" House added. She elbowed him.

"Ah, yes, a monument. We have several different styles available." He pulled out a thick folder. "If you'd like to sit down, I'll show you some examples, and you can decide which one best expresses your . . ."

He broke off as House pulled out the folded sketch sheet from his wallet and plunked it down in the middle of the folder of examples. "We won't be here long enough to sit down. The one that's circled. I want _that_ on a double stone."

Cuddy leaned over herself, getting a look at the final design for the first time. She smiled.

The man efficiently and smoothly changed gears. "A custom design." He didn't mention the lopsided honors. "Of course, we can have that carved. Plain gray stone? We do have different shades of. . ." House's expression answered. "Plain gray, right. The best choice on the writing and design is inset in granite. We guarantee the legibility of the letters for a hundred years."

"Safe enough, since neither you nor I would be around to deal with the claim if it isn't." House tapped the sheet again. "Kill the sales pitch. I want that stone, and I want to be back out of here in five minutes, tops. Rather, the wife does, and it pays to keep her happy." Underneath the sarcasm was a neon-bright sign: No sympathy. The man read it without difficulty.

"Of course. Just let me fill out an order form in our computer. Name for the order?"

"Gregory House." House fidgeted. His leg didn't like standing, but he wasn't about to sit.

"Thank you. The only other information I need is the cemetery and your address, and we'll take care of everything else." He started to enter the data on the deceased from the sketch, and the computer beeped at him. He clicked over with the mouse to another page, and his eyes widened. "House. I _thought_ that sounded -" He cut himself off that time, looking up at House, then back at the computer.

"You did the original stone for John House?" Cuddy asked.

He nodded, looking from her back to her husband, then buried himself again in the computer. The electronic memory had obviously rebooted his own, and the full media from last summer was now on file. He apparently read the description of the old stone, then looked at the drawing again, comparing. A brief flicker of understanding ran through his eyes, quickly suppressed. Even just from a media perspective, without the additional military details provided by Thomas, the original stone's lie was apparent. He cleared his throat and moused back to the new form, returning to entering data, then popped the sketch page into a scanner before offering it back to House.

"We already have the cemetery and plot details on file. All we need is your address." Cuddy rattled it off. "Thank you. We'll get this made as soon as possible, and we'll notify you when it's in place." The printer whirred and spit out an invoice, and he handed it over. "This will be the total, but you can pay only a 20% deposit now and inspect the final stone yourselves before paying the balance if you wish."

Cuddy picked it up to read over. House, not really caring about the bottom line, was looking toward the van, already itching to be out of here with this business behind him. Cuddy's words pulled his attention back quickly. "A 50% discount?" She stared at the man. The adjustment amounted to $3500 on a $7000 stone.

"Normally, we correct any errors in our previous work for free, but there are expenses with a total remake. That's the best I can do for you."

"Pay it and come on, Lisa," House said gruffly, although he had absorbed every line of the invoice himself by now.

She pulled out a credit card. "Go ahead and put it all on there now. And thank you."

He ran the credit card and gave her a receipt. "My condolences on your mother," he couldn't resist saying. "Thank you, Dr. House."

"Yeah." House turned quickly, hitting the limit, and limped toward the door. Cuddy thanked the man once more and then quickly caught up with her husband, and they exited the shop together. Peace had been restored by now in the van. Once again, their hands reached for each other without looking as soon as they were in their seats, and this time, it was a perfect meeting halfway, not a collision. A gentle squeeze, and Cuddy let go to start the van. "Okay, now on to Blythe's house."

(H/C)

The worker at the thrift store rolled her hamper up to the big donation bin to collect the overnight drop-offs. She dropped the key on her first attempt and swore as she bent to get it, then paused, a gleam of metal at ground level catching her eye. Two shovels, apparently practically new, were tucked alongside the bin on the side away from the busy main road. They were as near underneath it as was possible. She pulled them out and studied them. Good, solid shovels, easily worth a price tag of a few dollars each. They wouldn't fit through the drop flap with the handles, so they had been hidden carefully beside it. She shrugged. You never knew what would be in the bin each morning. Just two mornings ago, they had had a nearly new saw inside, plus a sack with a flashlight. This must be home improvement week. Unruffled, she set the shovels down beside her hamper and unlocked the door of the bin to retrieve the rest of last night's cast-offs. In addition to the usual clothes and a few stuffed animals, the bin today contained a Walmart sack with another flashlight and a completely unused can of black spray paint.

Definitely home improvement week. She tucked it all in the cart, placed the shovels on their handles sideways across the top, and rolled it back toward the store to be sorted.


	65. Chapter 65

A/N: Not that it's new, but remember that in scenes purely from Thomas' perspective, which applies for this whole chapter, he views House and Cuddy by their first names. Thanks for reading!

(H/C)

Thomas unlocked the front door to Blythe's house and stepped inside.

Time seemed paused on late Tuesday afternoon. The will had been taken, but everything else in the living room looked exactly as it had at the moment Greg found that letter. The boxes Thomas had been starting to tape up were untouched, the roll of packing tape still on top of one and attached in the middle of being pulled across it, the piece of tape uncut. Thomas had been the first to leave that memorable evening, but obviously, nobody else had accomplished anything further other than worrying about Greg themselves.

Thomas took a deep breath and let it out, releasing some of the tension, moving on past that moment of feeling absolutely trapped and helpless, seeing his son hurtling toward disaster and not only unable to prevent it but forced to contribute. Whatever had happened to those letters (buried at the cemetery?), things with Greg were much better now than they had been then. He even had a promise of another visit, not only with Greg but with his granddaughters. It would be on neutral ground, but Thomas understood that that was the best his son could manage right now. But Lisa could have come alone; Greg had volunteered himself into that weekend, and the addition of the girls had been entirely his move. They could have left them back in Princeton with that admirably efficient nanny. His son _wanted_ to see him. Slowly but definitely, there was progress, and the potential disaster looming Tuesday night had been averted. Thomas was willing to wait, wishing for more but grateful for as much as he had.

Greg knew the truth about the cemetery, too. Plus the defense lawyer, and Thomas had _no_ idea how he had gotten that information. Pride in his son surged through him. He would never ask what Greg had done at the cemetery on his own visit; that, like Thomas' words to John that night, had been private. He would respect that, but it would make a great final resting point for the letters if they were now underground there. What had fascinated Thomas during breakfast was Jensen. Since Greg had returned to the cemetery yesterday, Jensen obviously had, too. Thomas was sure Jensen had kept a very close eye on his son all day; Jensen had been as worried Wednesday morning setting out as any of them. So Jensen knew about his own visit, too, but there wasn't even a flicker of change in attitude, not a hint of extra data now in the way he had looked at Thomas and spoken to him during breakfast. The man truly had confidentiality down to an art form.

Better get to work. Thomas walked over to that half-taped box and finished the arrested process first of all, jolting the room out of Tuesday's mood. After he had cut the tape, he set the roll aside and then allowed himself a stroll around. He had never actually explored Blythe and John's house completely, had always been just a guest of a few hours, and even Tuesday, he had been more focused on Greg than anything and staying close to him, not moving much past the living room and trips to the bathroom. Now, a little more at peace about his son, he felt his usual curiosity waking up, and the opportunity during these few minutes in private really was irresistible.

He started with the piano, giving it a proprietary stroke now, hitting a key at random. He might even start taking lessons. He knew he was totally without musical talent, but he would be willing now to work a little even at learning to roughly pick through tunes. His father had been almost too careful not to put musical pressure on his children, leaving the choice entirely up to them. Now, Thomas' choice would be different than it had as a young boy. Leaving the piano for the moment, he explored the whole house quickly but thoroughly. John's personal things were completely gone, and he felt a surge of gratitude toward Blythe for that. He spent a bittersweet minute eying her romance novels and mysteries. To the end, she had lived partly in a fantasy world. At least she and her son had had a few years of the truth. There would have been even more unfinished, dangling threads of the past had she died years ago.

Thomas finished his tour of the house. A nice, quiet life but with a few little personal points in it now like that desk Lisa wanted and like that shelf of fiction, greatly expanded since John's day, he was sure. Her car was in the garage; probably Patsy had driven her to the airport for her final flight to avoid long-term parking. It was a medium model, nondescript sedan, doing the job but rather boring. He smiled, remembering her.

The doorbell shook him out of reverie, and he looked at his watch. Not time for Greg and the others yet, and they would hardly ring anyway. This must be Patsy or another neighbor who had noticed his rental car. He walked back through the house from the garage and opened the front door.

Sure enough, it was Patsy. "Good morning, Thomas," she greeted him brightly.

"Good morning." He stepped back, silently inviting her in. She looked around the living room. "Greg and Lisa will be here in a few minutes with the others," he stated, answering the unspoken question. "They had one errand first."

"Good. I don't want to pester her, but we need to get some details ironed out. I was going to call her if she didn't show up by noon. What time this afternoon do they . . . do you . . . ?" She paused, suddenly confused.

He smiled. "_Their _plane leaves at 3:35 for New Jersey. Mine leaves at 2:58, heading back to St. Louis. Lisa mentioned over breakfast at the hotel that she wanted to be at the airport by 1:30, so it will be tight, but she wants to talk to you."

Patsy nodded. "You're a good friend, Thomas. I'm sure you've been a support to them this last week."

"I hope so."

She walked slowly around the living room, surveying it now with a half-proprietary eye, mentally making the changes that she never would have suggested when Blythe was alive. "Did Lisa mention what she was going to do with the furniture?"

"She said that Blythe had made several gifts of it. She did find the will, by the way."

"Oh, good. Greg does get the house, of course."

"Yes, he does. There shouldn't be any problems on the title. There's probate first, of course, but after that . . ."

Patsy dismissed probate with a brush of her hand. "We can wait. Or Brian can rent it for a while, like that other friend suggested." She smiled. "I can just imagine Blythe making out a list of gifts in her will, trying to make sure she hit all the people who matter."

"So can I," Thomas agreed. "She obviously had made a lot of friends here the last few years. About the rest of the furniture, the part that isn't a bequest, Lisa mentioned selling it, but they do have to go through probate first legally. She suggested this morning maybe coming back in a few weekends to hire a company to clear it all out to a storage area."

Patsy gave a soft sigh of relief. "That sounds wonderful. I'd be willing to supervise it myself, but I'd much rather she did and Greg, too, if he can. They need to see it piece by piece to make sure there's nothing they want for themselves." She stopped in her tour of the living room at the piano and touched it gently. "She loved this instrument. She really couldn't play well at all, but she had fun with it, and she was always talking about Greg. Did Lisa mention if anybody gets the piano? Greg already has one. Blythe showed me a picture of him at it once, and she was talking about it."

Thomas hesitated, then plunged on. "Actually, I'm going to wind up with the piano myself." She would find that out anyway on the last weekend in January when he turned back up to see it off and help the others. Let her mind fill in whatever back story she wished; Blythe's will was a convenient context if she chose that, and he hadn't technically lied.

"Oh, how wonderful. So you play?"

"Not really." He gave her a sheepish grin. "But it's never too late to learn. My father played extremely well, and I've always loved music. I wouldn't mind trying to pick it up, even on a very amateur level."

"How like Blythe to remember you talking about that," Patsy said. She gave a half-curious, half-worried look around the house. "Did she leave me something?"

"I'm sure she did, but I don't know what. I haven't seen the will myself, just heard a few comments at the hotel from Lisa."

At that moment, the van pulled up in the driveway, and Thomas was fighting back a smile a few seconds later. Lisa even closed car doors efficiently, a nice, crisp sound, not close to a slam but nothing wasted. He opened the front door and stepped outside, as did Patsy. Here came Lisa, briskly efficient and on a mission, obviously hearing each tick of the clock, but she looked more relaxed than she had earlier, and so did Greg. She spotted Patsy and came straight up, leaving the others to unload the girls. "Oh, good. Perfect timing. We need to get some details tied up before I leave this afternoon." She herded Patsy on into the house, already deep into her organized points, and Thomas walked over to the van.

"Greg," he said, and his son, having just opened the sliding door, looked at him suspiciously but stepped without hesitation to one side, leaving Wilson to climb through and take Abby once Marina had her unbuckled. Thomas closed the distance between them. "Patsy knows that I'm getting the piano," he said very softly. "She turned up and was asking about the furniture, and I mentioned Blythe's will. She asked me specifically if anybody got the piano. She would have found that out for herself in a few weeks."

Greg studied him with those shielded eyes. They were his father's eyes, but it was the _difference_, the defensive woundedness, that stabbed Thomas when he looked at them. "But she thinks Mom left it to you as part of that list?"

"If she does, that's her mistake. I didn't technically say so."

A moment, and then there was a brief flash of respect. "But you misled her on it."

Thomas shrugged. "I can't help what we were talking about when she asked me that."

Greg relaxed. "Okay."

Abby ran up to him at that moment, having insisted to Wilson that she could walk herself. Now, of course, only seconds later, she tugged at her father's good leg. "_Up,_ Dada."

He picked her up. "I'm supposed to make you say please first."

Abby gave him a smile and then leaned against him. "Won't tell."

Thomas laughed. "Abby, you have the mind of a lawyer already at two. Wonder what you're going to be like once you're older."

"You aren't the first to wonder that," Wilson noted as he came up behind them. He looked from one man to the other, obviously curious about the private conversation and obviously knowing he didn't stand a chance of getting a straight answer if he asked. "We'd better get in there before Cuddy has an efficiency fit and realizes some of the ranks are slacking."

Together, they trooped into the house, where Patsy and Lisa were seated on the couch and both studying a paper which obviously was Blythe's list of bequests, recopied in Lisa's efficient handwriting. "The couch," Patsy was just saying as they entered. "I _did_ really admire it when they bought it a few years before John died, but I've already got a couch."

"Sell it," Greg suggested. He gravitated to the piano as if pulled by a magnet. "Or give it to your brother. Does _he_ have a couch? That would save moving it at all."

Patsy considered. "I think their couch is quite old. That's a good idea, Greg. I'll ask them."

"You can keep this copy," Lisa said, thrusting it at her. "If you get a chance and run into these people, let them know. Anybody who doesn't want theirs can sell it, of course, once we get through probate. And we'll be back the fourth weekend of January to have everything cleared out. I'm sorry it can't be sooner, but that's the best we can do. This month has already had the schedule turned crazy."

Patsy gave her a sympathetic squeeze on the arm. "It doesn't matter. They can stay with me for a few weeks, and we can even look over anything not on this list and see if they want that." Greg had started playing at Abby's quiet insistence, and she looked over at the instrument. "You forgot to put down that Thomas gets the piano. So kind of Blythe." She pulled out a pen from her purse and jotted that on the end herself.

Lisa looked over at him, and Thomas gave her an innocent look. Her next quick glance was at her husband, who hadn't even reacted to that line, and then she smiled. "I guess I did leave that one off. Oh, and the little desk in the kitchen. That's going to Princeton." Patsy drooped slightly, then firmly caught herself. Obviously, she would have chosen the desk herself rather than the couch. She wrote the desk down below the piano.

"Anything else?"

"No. That should be it. Of course, I'll pay you for what you're. . ."

Patsy brushed the offer away. "I'm happy to help out, Lisa, and you're doing us a big favor here. Just call whatever I do this month a gift in memory of Blythe." She looked at her watch and stood up. "I'll go back home and call Brian's wife now and tell her about details, but I'm sure all this will be fine. Oh, things are going to be _perfect_." She whisked out the door, and they saw her through the front window pausing for a half-proprietary look at the bushes and the front of the house, then heading for her own home with purpose.

"She reminds me of Blythe in a few ways," Wilson noted. Jensen nodded.

Lisa sighed and stood up. "Well, at least that much is down. Now, we have to . . . _Greg!_" He had switched pieces in the middle of her speech from soft jazz to the opening of the William Tell Overture. The others laughed. Rolling her eyes, she pressed on, insulted agenda still flying proudly from its flagpole. "It's already 10:15. We need to get these boxes ready, make a last run through the house, get them to the shipping store, grab lunch, load the van, check out . . ."

"And breathe," Jensen reminded her. "We're already packed, and I'm sure you and Marina have everything as near ready as you could get it this morning with the girls. We'll make the airport just fine."

"I'll hit the shipping store," Thomas offered. "Just pile the boxes in my rental car as we get them labeled and taped."

"Thanks, Thomas." She paused. "Cars. I didn't actually go in the garage Tuesday." She looked at Jensen, who had searched it and come up with the shovel to dig the bush. "Is Blythe's car there? If not, it must be at the airport, and we need to . . ."

"It's there," Jensen reassured her. "It can stay there for a few weeks until next trip, and you can take it out then for a run just to keep it working and the battery charged. The car will be easy to sell once you can legally. That won't be a problem."

"Maybe Patsy's brother needs a car, too," Wilson suggested. "Nice and convenient."

Lisa looked at her husband, then away, and Thomas wondered what sort of car Greg had at home. Obviously, she considered that it needed an upgrade, although she wasn't quite ready to push his mother's on him. The efficient, recent model he had seen back during the trial must have been Lisa's car.

He heard the thought. "There is _nothing_ wrong with my car, Lisa," he insisted, never missing a note. "It runs fine." And he definitely didn't want Blythe's.

She yielded and looked at Thomas. "Do you happen to need a car, Thomas?"

"No, I'm quite happy with the one I've got, and it has a lot of life left."

Greg stopped playing and turned around on the piano bench, careful of his leg as always. "What do you drive?" he asked.

"It's a BMW," Thomas answered.

"Now what you _ought_ to do if you really want to be helpful," his son said, "is to give me yours, and you take Mom's yourself."

Thomas smiled at him, no hard feelings in the rock-solid answer but no leeway, either. "No. Buy your own."

Wilson chuckled, and Greg turned away with a dramatically exaggerated droop to his shoulders. "And the limit is found. I _knew_ there had to be one somewhere. Oil runs thicker than blood, obviously."

"What?" Rachel looked around the group, feeling like she was missing something.

"Nothing," her father told her. He resumed playing with a flashy run clear down the keyboard, and Rachel, distracted, came over to stand beside the piano bench.

Fighting back her own smile, Lisa walked over to the boxes against the wall. "Let's get to work."


	66. Chapter 66

A/N: Please make sure that you all have read chapter 65, Thomas at Blythe's house. It was posted Saturday morning, but I figured out from apparent total lack of reviews and also a comment later from someone else via non site email that FF net was constipated this weekend and did not deliver to email boxes, at least not to everybody's. I had to hunt up reviews at the site, and the new chapter notifications weren't all going out, either. Anyway, 65 is right there waiting, and 66 will still be here for you in a few minutes, so go read that one first if you haven't. Great Thomas-House exchange.

To Team Cuddy, in this case, you're definitely reading too much into "nothing." House has many times tried the exact same dismiss and then distract tactics with Abby to avoid explaining something (see chapter 39 of this story for one example that's only 2 fic days old). The strategy is starting to get less successful with Abby as she grows older, but that's due to personality differences between the girls and her starting to call him on the evasion. It's not due to him saving dismiss/distract for Rachel alone because he considers she isn't "worth" the effort of a real explanation, being only adopted. He does have a bad habit of doing this with his daughters (plural) on emotional subjects instead of giving even a toddler-edited version of an answer, and Jensen has brought it up and has been working on it since Medical Homicide, several mentions in the series over different stories. House is improving, and there are also multiple examples across stories of him catching himself at it with both girls and changing course voluntarily halfway, but he's not totally there yet, and he especially isn't up to volunteering explanations to them yet that relate to Thomas.

To all, there is only one more chapter left of this story after the current one. Just so you don't get your hopes miscalibrated, I will _not_ be giving a live, play-by-play account in a story of the next visit, the whirlwind weekend trip to get the furniture moved. You will get a brief summary of that visit in Father's Day, but not much happens other than continued slow interaction, another intermediate step on neutral ground. Trust me, you will like reading the visit in Father's Day at length much more; a lot of things happen there.

On to 66. Thanks for those who reviewed the last chapter; finding them when I finally thought to check the site was a nice lift. And for those who missed notification of the last chapter due to FF net, have fun reading (and reviewing?) both . :)

(H/C)

Somehow they made it to the airport by 1:37. Those seven minutes off goal bothered Cuddy, but even she had to admit that the interval had proceeded as smoothly as it could, and she wasn't sure how any more time could have been gained. The house had undergone its final inspection, and all boxes had been addressed, sealed, and loaded. Then Thomas was sent off to the UPS Store as well as McDonald's to pick up lunch while Cuddy had had a final talk with Patsy and returned the key and the others had loaded the girls and their impedimenta into the van. Then back to the hotel, where Thomas and lunch arrived at about the same time they did. A quick meal in the suite, and then everybody split for final packing, loading of the vehicles, and checkout. Thomas beat them to the airport but was waiting for them outside at the rental car lot, and he had already acquired a luggage cart. House even had a helpful moment and volunteered to turn the van back in with the rental place while the rest of them went on to check in the baggage.

Finally, the luggage was consigned to the nontender hands of the airline employees, everything was done, and all that was left was waiting. Thomas' plane was departing from a gate two down from theirs, but he joined the rest of them in the interim. Sitting there surrounded by carry-on luggage, car seats, and the potted azalea, they made quite a sight for the other passengers, and several smiled. House could almost see the thought bubble over their heads: _What a nice family._

He shifted in his seat. The closer they got to this goodbye, the more he had pulled back into himself, thinking, _watching_. Was this a family? _Could_ it be? More to the point, _should_ it be? He had to admit, Thornton had surprised him on this trip, but still, so much at risk. Little moments of unexpected humor and similarity, of a revised tombstone and burned letters that Jensen said were not enough to give it away seemed poised in a scale, and on the other side was all the weight of the past. He fidgeted. This _was_ all happening too fast, and he hated being pinned down to anything.

And now, like bad fiction, they were down to a farewell at the airport. Part of him was afraid he would be expected to say something _significant_ now, in the best corny fictional fashion, and his whole being rebelled against it. He couldn't say something like that, even if he wanted to, and he wasn't yet sure that he wanted to. He needed more time to watch and run this differential. Jensen had agreed that it was all right to go slowly, so he even had professional approval here from the expert. Screw expectations. If Thornton . . . if anybody else had them, they would just have to be disappointed for today.

Rachel was chatting with Thomas, mentioning a few times the number of hooves on a horse. She did have the stuffed Ember with her for the plane trip this time instead of consigned to a suitcase, but the batteries had been removed, a compromise Thomas had suggested. Rachel kept forgetting that and squeezing a hoof or an ear anyway. Abby was happy with her stuffed musical notes, to House's relief. He had been afraid she would want her special Christmas toy for the trip, too, and the music computer was completely useless without batteries. She had asked but at least had accepted the explanation with the attached reassurance that she could have it back before the end of the day.

Finally, reluctantly, Thomas looked at his watch, then at the departure board overhead. "I'd better get over there. They'll be boarding soon." He looked at his son, hesitated, then stood up, and all of the others did, too, except House. He stared at his shoes, not even looking at the other man, but he was following the action intently, all his senses on high.

Wilson and Jensen shook hands with Thomas, and Marina, to House's surprise, gave him a quick hug and whispered something in his ear. Rachel started to say something, and Cuddy picked her up. "Just a minute, Rachel. We'll walk over there with you to say goodbye. Come on, Greg." He froze. She started off for the neighboring gates without a glance back, only the tightness across her shoulders betraying her insecurity about this moment. Abby, in his arms, surprised him by flopping away, reaching after them.

"_Go,_ Dada."

He sighed. Jensen, Wilson, and Marina carefully didn't say a word. Finally, he set Abby aside while he pried himself out of the chair, and she waited patiently for the process. Nothing like being reminded by his 2-year-old daughter that he was a cripple. Right now, he felt it in every possible way, not just physically. Once his balance was set, he picked her up. The others were about 20 feet ahead, and he limped slowly after them, the tension increasing with every stride.

The destination arrived too quickly. Cuddy closed in beside her husband, and her free hand gave him a squeeze on the arm with such gratitude, relief, and pride in it that it momentarily pushed the tension away a few steps. Rachel was wanting down, and once her mother had set her on her feet, she ran the few steps to Thomas. He knelt, getting down to her level, as she gave him a hug. "Bye, Thomas!" she said. "See you Saturday."

"Four Saturdays," he reminded her.

She nodded. "Four Saturdays. Like Ember's feet. Bye." She returned to her parents, and Thomas stood back up.

In the next moment, Cuddy had seized him firmly in a hug. She blinked back tears. "Goodbye for now, Thomas. You take _care_ of yourself, you hear?" She backed off enough to meet his eyes firmly. "Call me tonight to let me know you got home safely. No, wait. Go to bed early tonight. You still need more sleep. But call me tomorrow morning to let me know you got home safely. Only. . ."

She broke off as he hugged her again. "I'll send you a text soon as I get home so you won't have to worry about it. And _then_ I'll go to bed early."

"Lisa, he _is_ 75 years old," House muttered. "He probably has figured out how to take care of himself by now."

Cuddy heard, but she ignored him other than a twitch of a shoulder. "Bye, Thomas," she repeated and finally backed off. "For now."

His father faced him, and House felt his stomach tighten painfully. "Greg, could I talk to you privately just for a minute?" The man sounded a little unsure and worried himself, oddly for someone so good at a front.

Cuddy was promptly on the bandwagon, of course, reaching over. "I'll take Abby," she said. "See you in a minute, Greg." She picked up her younger daughter, her free hand still holding Rachel's.

Abby studied Thomas and then abruptly spoke up herself. "Bye, Thomas," she said.

He gave her a surprised smile. "Bye, Abby," he replied.

Then Cuddy was gone, and the two of them were left face to face. House's entire body tensed up, and defiance edged with panic pushed in. He would _not_ be forced into something he wasn't sure of yet by the occasion. To hell with it.

"Greg." Thomas reached into his carry-on and pulled out a manila envelope. He looked around at the other waiting passengers, present but not too close, and then he switched into Dutch anyway, his voice soft and steady, as if reassuring a spooked horse. "I have something I wanted to give you. That's all."

It was the second statement that caught House's attention first. That's _all_? This wasn't a public effort to trap him? He was so caught up in analysis of that that it took him a moment to react to the offered envelope. "Another Christmas present? You're late. Or early. Nope, definitely late."

Thomas gave him a sad smile. "I'm several years late. But this isn't a Christmas present. It's just something I thought you might want. I wouldn't open it in public, though." That, of course, was a challenge, and he saw the answering spark ignite in his son's eyes. "Please, open it alone. That warning is for your sake, Greg."

House took the envelope, studied it - totally blank but sealed - and then looked back up and waited. Nothing. "That's all?" he repeated finally, skeptically.

Thomas nodded. "It's _okay_, Greg. I'm not pushing you for anything more. I know this is difficult, and it should be."

He tried to wrap his mind around that for another moment. He glanced back toward the others, two gates away but watching, of course. "Well . . ." he started. Abruptly, almost of its own volition, the sentence changed halfway, still in Dutch but arriving in a different galaxy from where it had started. "If you _had_ known, would you have done something?" A second later, he wanted to snatch the words back, but it was too late.

Tears actually welled up in the other man's eyes. "_Yes!_ I swear, Greg, I would have." There was again a flash of that odd intensity, the steel beneath, reminding House of the tape of the confrontation with the defense lawyer and of that meticulously altered tombstone which Thornton had come near breaking a foot on afterwards in the force of his kick.

Overhead, the first call for boarding for Thomas' flight came. He looked toward the door to the tunnel, then back at his son. Slowly he reached out, touching him lightly on the arm.

His hands felt strong but gentle, too, an odd combination that House couldn't help noting and analyzing in the few seconds before he pulled firmly away. His father didn't try to hold him. "_Au revoir,_" he said softly, and then he turned and was gone.

House stood there watching the tall form until it disappeared through the tunnel. Then he turned toward the others. It was Wilson's look that reminded him of the manila envelope in his left hand, and he promptly changed course, heading for the restroom. Thornton had recommended privacy; you couldn't get much more private than a bathroom stall. He ripped it open but extracted the contents carefully, as if they might burn his fingers.

It was an 8 x 10 portrait of Blythe, and this one, unlike the quick black-and-whites he had seen from the other man so far, was done in color, looking almost professional and yet personal at the same time. She looked as she had in the last few years, finally with an odd peace but still with an almost childlike wonder and naivety that belied her gray hair. The love was there, but so was the subtle sense of fantasy that would lead her astray, that had killed her in the end. His mother.

The damned tears were shorter lived that time, at least, and silent. Nobody in a neighboring stall would have known. He held out the drawing carefully to protect it. Once he felt that he had a firm grip on himself again, he repackaged the portrait and then wiped his eyes with the toilet paper. He started to stand up, then stopped and pulled out his cell phone, typing in a quick text.

_Not bad, old man. Keep practicing. _

He pocketed his cell phone, then stood up. He reached for the door of the stall, then, hearing the other passengers moving around the room, remembered to reach back to flush the toilet. Then he exited, heading for his family.

(H/C)

Thomas sat in his seat on the plane, bone weary as, away from the others, he relaxed. The week was over, and so much had been gained. So much left, of course, but he was amazed at how much things had changed since only last Thursday when he first had arrived in Lexington to arrange the funeral.

The doors closed, the fasten seat belts light came on, and the standard greetings and safety reminders that he had heard dozens of times started unspooling. He pulled out his cell phone to turn it off, and in that instant, as he was holding it, a text arrived. He quickly switched over to view it. He read it once, twice, and even after he turned off the phone, he still saw the words written clearly in his mind.

It was the first time since childhood, other than one sarcastic dart thrown at that first meeting in the courtroom, that his son had called him anything.

Thomas settled back into his seat, feeling the engines beneath him, the heavy weight of the plane now slowly in motion, now accelerating, now leaping, defying gravity, into the air, no longer earthbound but free. He knew he and his son weren't in the air yet, but he knew that the doors had already been closed. It was only a matter of waiting for clearance.

By the time the stewardess came by with snacks, Thomas was sound asleep.


	67. Chapter 67

The flight home was far easier than the trip to Lexington had been. The girls were worn out from the bustling day without a nap and very quickly conked out in their seats, each clutching her toy tightly, Rachel the horse and Abby the eighth notes. This allowed House to actually sit for the flight instead of constantly twisting to talk to the girls and get things for them and shuffling back and forth changing rows several times while getting run into by other passengers. The seats on this plane seemed more comfortable, too; at least, his leg was hurting less in them than it had last Sunday. No flight would ever be easy on him, but this one was as good as they came. He wound up sitting beside Cuddy for most of the trip. Rachel, beside them in the window seat, was totally out, snuggled up with the stuffed Ember.

House looked at his sleeping daughter and the silenced horse. "I like that thing a lot better without batteries," he commented. "Think we could . . ."

Cuddy smiled. "Tempting, but she'd never accept it." She looked briefly at the manilla envelope which he still held, but she had not asked. When he was ready, he would tell her as much as he chose to. More peace regarding her family left room for the work worries to push in, and her mind turned to dreading what her desk was going to look like in the morning.

"You need to start yoga again," her husband said. "You've missed a few days." He felt her tighten up and quickly expanded the thought. "And that _wasn't_ a comment on how you look. Mentally, you need it. It relaxes you, and you've been too focused on everybody else. Physically, you're still smokin' hot." He squeezed her arm, the azalea preventing him from going much further.

"You're right," she admitted. "I hadn't really thought much of missing the yoga this week, but I did. Okay, I'll be sure to do that in the morning before heading off to paperwork battles."

"And then, _after_ paperwork battles," House said, "we need to get back into date night tomorrow night. We've missed the last two weeks." Two weeks. It was only two weeks ago tomorrow that he had picked his mother up at the airport for her Christmas visit.

Cuddy hesitated for a moment, PPTH and date night in a tug-of-war with both shortchanged, but date night won. "That sounds great, Greg. But just for tomorrow, let's skip the sessions first and go straight to the date." She had talked to Patterson several times in the past week during the crisis, and he had had what must have been a marathon run with Jensen on Wednesday.

"Sounds good," House agreed. He turned his head to Jensen, in the row behind him, and said, "The wife wants us both to play shrink hookey tomorrow and fool around instead, so I'm cancelling for this week."

"That sounds like a wonderful plan to me," Jensen said. "I'll just go home early." Home. The closer the plane got, the more he was itching to get back home himself. He wanted to get back to work, too, but it was his family he had missed far more. He still had to run back to Princeton - the luggage had required two cars, so his and Cuddy's both were stashed in long-term parking at Newark - and that would add a detour into his route, but after that, it was just two hours. Maybe even a little less tonight.

Wilson heard the thought. "Too bad you can't just go straight from Newark. It would be faster for you, but we'd never fit everything in one car to Princeton."

"It's all right," Jensen said. "I'll still get there tonight."

The fasten seat belts light came on, and Wilson tried to look across Abby out the window eagerly. They were probably over New Jersey now as they prepared to land. Couldn't be far off it, at least. He was practically in the same state again as Sandra and Daniel.

The plane touched down smoothly. With all of their baggage between the girls and the plant, they waited for the other passengers to clear before starting to pack up. The girls were still sound asleep. Marina wound up taking Rachel, House had Abby, and Wilson and Jensen had car seats and bags, while Cuddy carried the azalea. Thus encumbered, they slowly exited the plane, and the first sight waiting for them beyond the tunnel was Sandra holding Daniel.

Wilson nearly dropped his load. "Sandra!" He managed to get himself unpacked, and then she was in his arms, and Daniel was smiling at him. "What are you doing here?" he asked a minute later. "I thought you were working this afternoon." They should have arrived at home at roughly the same time tonight.

"I traded," she replied. "I didn't want to wait any longer to see you."

He kissed her again. Only four days since Sunday when he'd said goodbye, but it seemed forever. She hadn't gone to see them off at Newark on Sunday, since it was obviously impossible to avoid long-term parking anyway, and she also had thought that adding yet another child and more fanfare to the airport convoy might make things even harder for House. But today, for the homecoming, she was here. "Missed you," he mumbled into her hair.

"Yes, I'm sure she's got that idea by now," House noted. "Along with everyone else in the airport. Now that you're officially welcomed home, at least the public-rated version, can we get on with it?"

Wilson grinned and backed away, carefully extracting his shirt from Daniel, who had a handful of it clutched. "We'd better find a luggage cart. We've got three times this much that went in cargo."

Sandra was eying the plant, but she didn't comment. Instead, she turned to Jensen. "I also thought you might want to go straight home. My car can join the baggage train."

The psychiatrist perked up, mentally erasing that detour in the wrong direction. "Thank you. That's very thoughtful of you."

The luggage cart was found and the baggage claimed. Jensen took his one suitcase off the carousel, hiding his smile as Cuddy gave it an envious look. "Have a good date night tomorrow, and I _won't_ see you. Not till next week." Unless needed, but House knew he was available without saying him it.

House nodded. "Thanks," he said gruffly, with a quick look around as if he were afraid he might be overheard at it.

Cuddy put down the azalea long enough to give Jensen a hug. "Yes, thank you so much. For everything." And for Wednesday, whatever Wednesday had been. She still hadn't had details and was willing to wait or even have none if House chose, but she knew that Wednesday had been the turning point for her husband, and she knew that Jensen himself had been exhausted by the end of it.

"You're welcome," he said. "I needed this trip myself." He was looking much better, she thought. Eyes clearer, back to his usual steadiness. He gave the others a general farewell and then headed off, and as they watched, his stride lengthened, picking up speed all the way as he headed for the doors, going home.

It took longer to get the rest of them loaded up out in the parking lots, of course, but finally, the baggage was all stowed, and Sandra, Wilson, Daniel, and Marina were in Sandra's car. Cuddy gave a final check of the straps on Abby's car seat and then closed the rear door and got in the front passenger's seat. House already had climbed in behind the wheel, and as she joined him, he silently handed her the envelope. She opened it, withdrew the drawing, and studied it for a long moment. Perfect likeness and with that extra glimpse into the character that only a gifted artist can add to a portrait. "He's really good," she said.

House gave a wordless grunt and started the car. "Let's go home, Lisa."

(H/C)

Saturday morning, Thomas backed the BMW out of the garage, hit the button to close the door, and then started down the street. He had loafed for most of yesterday, taking a few naps, watching an old movie, and not doing much other than going out to groom Ember and talk to the farrier about her shoes. This morning, though, he felt like he was finally catching up on sleep. He had even been tempted to take his usual 4 1/2 mile walk today, but then, looking at his foot, he decided to put it off one more day just to be careful. The foot was feeling better this morning, a significant improvement, and it was finally starting to fade even if still colorful.

Before he reached the end of his street, his cell phone went off with a new ring tone that he had added just yesterday: _Here Comes the Sun._ Thomas smiled as he pulled it out and hit speaker. "Good morning, Greg."

His son didn't return the greeting, but he hadn't expected him to. "I'm supposed to remind you to count hooves today."

"No danger of forgetting it. In fact, I'm heading out for actual hooves to count right now."

There was a hint almost of concern in his son's tone, flashing across briefly before it was buried again behind the words. "Sure your foot's ready for that?"

"I'll be taking it easy. She's got a battle scar herself from this last week, three stitches worth, but she wasn't lame yesterday. Just a little nicked up. I thought we might take a walk. Nothing more." A nice, long walk, getting out on the trails alone. He had a lot to tell her. "But my foot is feeling a lot better this morning. It's starting to fade, too."

"Don't make a habit of that. You're lucky you didn't break it."

"I can't think of any other tombstones I'd like to kick, so I should be safe enough. How's Lisa?"

"You ought to know. You talked to her yesterday." She had called Thomas in the morning.

"I talked to her _before_ she spent all day at work after she hadn't been there in almost two weeks. I'm sure she was having administrative kittens by the end of it."

A soft chuckle. "Yeah. She was buried to the neck in paperwork, but I managed to dig her out last night. She's going in today for a while. If she camps there too long, though, I'll take the girls down to PPTH, and that will end things. Two toddlers and paperwork don't mix." Another pause. "So you're driving to the stable right now?"

"Yes."

"In the sacred Beamer. Glad to know you've got your priorities straight." He sounded like a petulant 6-year-old for a moment, obviously partly as an act, but there was still that buried thread of insecurity running beneath.

"You could buy your own easily, Greg. I really recommend them. This is my second one. Emily and I picked it out together to replace our first after we had road-tripped that one to automotive retirement. That was right before she got sick."

There was a brief silence as his son absorbed that, both the stated and subliminal text. "What color is it?"

"Blue."

"Which can cover a lot of ground."

Thomas smiled. "I'll send you a picture of it, okay?"

"If you want. Not that it matters, since you'd never share it." The earlier message had been received. Thomas could tell that Greg was simply grandstanding now. "I'd better go. Don't kill yourself on the talking horse, okay? I'd hate to have to explain it to Rachel."

Thomas' smile widened. "I'll keep that in mind and try not to inconvenience you. Bye, Greg." A click, and his son was gone. Thomas found himself humming as he drove on, the words to the old Beatles' song running through his mind. _I feel that ice is slowly melting._

The stable was at its busiest on Saturday mornings. It would be even worse than this in the summer, but this was a pleasant day for January, bright sunshine and not too cold. Several riders were in one of the outdoor rings, and Bob was giving a lesson in the other. Thomas parked carefully at the far end of the grassy parking area, well away from any other vehicles, and then entered the barn.

"Thomas!" An 8-year-old girl had her Welsh pony cross-tied in one of the grooming stalls on Ember's aisle, and she looked up eagerly as he walked by. Little Jenny Morrison, getting ready for her lesson. "You weren't here last Saturday."

"No, I was out of town." He paused, eying her and picturing Rachel in several years. Now that he had appearances and personalities firsthand to plug in, it was easier to daydream about his granddaughters. Rachel was truly interested in horses, he thought, and they would be very good for her, steadying her as well as feeding a passion. It would be good for her to have something she was as passionate about as Abby was with music.

"I wanted to show you Frosty's new halter."

Thomas walked over for a closeup inspection. It was bright blue nylon with a white noseband with the pony's name in blue letters stitched across it. "Nice! Did you get that for Christmas?"

"Yes."

"It's great." He stroked the snowy pony's nose. "You look all dressed up now, Frosty. Such a fine halter."

A sharp crack echoed through the aisle, and both Thomas and Jenny looked at Ember, three stalls away. She had her head out the door, looking toward Thomas, and her eyes were blazing. Once again, she smacked the sturdy oak door with a front leg.

Jenny giggled. "You're gonna be in trouble," she predicted.

Thomas gave Frosty a final pat and then walked on down the aisle. "Ember, you don't need to be jealous of Frosty. If I ever tried to ride him, he'd walk straight out from under me." Jenny laughed outright at that image, and he pictured Rachel again a few years down the road with her own pony. Thomas got to the stall, picked up Ember's own halter (leather with a brass nameplate) from the hook beside the door, and then spoke firmly, with none of the joking tone of a minute ago. "Get back." The mare obediently retreated, not trying to push into him or past him as he opened the door. He buckled her halter on, then led her out. Her new shoes rang on the concrete aisle as he led her to the set of cross-ties next to Jenny, and he found himself listening as always. This, too, was a form of music.

Once Ember was tied, he went to get his grooming tools, and when he came back, Jenny, now saddling Frosty, was looking at Ember. "What did she do to her leg?" she asked.

Thomas bent to check the small bandage. "She threw a shoe and cut herself on a nail. It's not serious." And with the new shoes, she definitely hadn't been favoring it a minute ago. The music on the concrete aisle had been perfectly even in its rhythm. Yes, he thought they could both handle a trail walk today just fine. He started brushing the mare.

A minute later, as Jenny finished bridling Frosty and started to lead him to the outside ring, she paused as she passed them. "You're happy today," she observed.

Thomas smiled at her. "I'm always happy out here. Vitamin H, you know."

She grinned at the old barn joke but pushed on. "Not always like today. You're _happy_ today."

He looked up and down the aisle, no one else in sight at the moment, then yielded. "Yes. I'm happy today. But I can't tell you why."

"I can keep a secret," she protested.

"I'm sure you can, Jenny. But some secrets have to stay secret just the same."

"But it's a _good_ secret?" she pushed.

"Yes. It's a good secret. But even _having_ a secret is a secret sometimes. Can you keep that one for me?"

She straightened up proudly and crossed her heart. "I won't tell. But I'm glad you've got a good secret. See you later, Thomas." She led her pony on, the hoof beats softer and lighter than Ember's, variations on the same song.

Thomas finished brushing Ember. The aisle was quiet just now, all the activity outside. "I'm glad _you_ can keep a secret," he told her softly. Hours and hours worth she had heard, his unofficial psychiatrist. "You won't ever tell on me, will you, girl?" He tapped her neck, and she whinnied at him. "Good to know. Thanks." He gave her a piece of carrot. Returning the brush to his grooming caddy, he took out the hoof pick and then ran his hand down the back of her leg. She promptly picked up the hoof, and he started cleaning it. Thinking not just of Rachel but of all of them, Greg and Abby and Lisa, too, and of the future stretching out in front of them, he let himself start counting. "One."

(H/C)

Here ends this story. Thanks to all who have taken this roller coaster with me. This one is my favorite out of the series, I think, and I hope you've enjoyed it, too. Reviews are like carrots, or would be if I were a horse (which I have been accused of a few times over the years).

Coming soon to a computer near you: Father's Day. Thomas visits Princeton, and he and House try spending a "test" day alone together.


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